


Second Chances

by crookedassembly



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: 2005, Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Baby Luke Skywalker, Captivity, Dubious Consent, Emperor Darth Vader, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Poor Obi-Wan Kenobi, Suitless Darth Vader, Threats of Violence, anakin just wants to be loved, don't do this if you want to be loved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:53:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22165180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedassembly/pseuds/crookedassembly
Summary: Anakin finds Obi-Wan in his self-imposed exile on Tatooine and takes him back to Coruscant with him.  Set post-Revenge of the Sith.(Previously posted under sometimesophie on LJ.  All chapters posted unedited and simultaneously.  Please note this is an eternally unfinished WIP but I've been asked to add it on here for posterity's sake.)
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Darth Vader
Comments: 51
Kudos: 463





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't planning on putting this on here as I was super young when I wrote it (wince) and it's permanently unfinished, but I received a very sweet comment on LJ asking me to do so and who am I to say no. ;)
> 
> In other news, my personal kink preferences clearly haven't developed with age.

Five basic years was a long time. Time enough for the gritty, hot sand to work into the marrow of your bones and to remind you that no one is immortal. Time enough for the sight of two red suns setting to become beautiful and not an indelible sign of the failure of your youth. Time enough for the barren planet of Tatooine to become home and, though certainly not a comfortable nor easy one, one which was far from the harsh, self-inflicted punishment that had been intended at the beginning.

And yet five years was certainly not enough time to forget that subtle shift in the Force, that unique mental frisson which indicated _his_ presence, one which tugged achingly at Obi-Wan’s hot, dust-covered heart and made his fingertips brush the air where his lightsabre would have once hung.

Because Anakin was here. And he was near. Very near.

Calmly, bones creaking slightly, Obi-Wan levered himself up from his meditative position on the rush mat on the sand-swept floor, and moved to the wooden case in one corner of the small hut, kneeling down on the floor beside it and tugging off the lid. Dipping his hand into its confines, he shut his eyes briefly as his fingers closed around the cool metal hilt of his lightsabre, pulling it forth from the dry darkness and gazing at it fondly for a moment, before clipping it to its rightful place on his belt. He paused for a moment, breathing slowed, mentally preparing himself as the door creaked open behind him. Then, slowly, he stood and turned around, the hot breeze from outside shifting his hair and eddying in the sand on the floor as it blew in through the open archway, his cloak swaying slightly about him.

He surveyed the man standing in the doorway for a long moment, the bright suns outlining his image in their beautiful intensity and spilling his shadow onto the floor in front of Obi-Wan. He watched solemnly with clear, unblinking blue-green eyes as the man bent his head slightly to step through into the cool shadows of the hut, his dark hair brushing against the low crossbeam of the door. 

“Hello Anakin.”

The Force pressed into him and took his breath away, running over his body in a delicate exploration, the mind controlling it lingering in an entirely uncomfortable way on his skin as it sought out the physical changes in his body, seeking out any damage. Obi-Wan schooled his face to show no emotion, weathering the most intimate and presumptuous of examinations with dry lips pressed together, determinedly ignoring the way his heart leapt at being so near to a Force sensitive after so long.

“I’m glad to have finally found you, Obi-Wan. I must admit, I did not suspect Tatooine.” The voice was a shock, deep and full, a heavy reminder of days long past. It jerked memories free from the tight mental grip that Obi-Wan had on them, dead thoughts from another time swirling in his mind, all of which ached - the good ones doubly more so than the bad.

Anakin’s eyes danced darkly as their gazes met, his arms held casually by his sides and the shining metal of his lightsabre most apparent on his belt, contrasting starkly against the soft black leather of his tunic. A Sith, and yet also a painful reminder of the Jedi that he might have become in the right circumstances. Just his simple appearance hurt more than it rightly should have done given the thought that Obi-Wan had given the tragedy and the role he had played in it over the past five years. He had thought - wrongly, it seemed - that he had accepted what had happened and had moved on.

“Last time we met and crossed blades, you were not the victor, Anakin.” Obi-Wan’s voice was soft and matter-of-fact. “Are you so sure of yourself now?” 

Anakin laughed good-naturedly, his unscarred face splitting into a grin. “I’m glad to see that you have not allowed this desert planet to dry you up or to tarnish your wits, my old master. You have not changed as much as I had feared you would.” He paused, his laughter fading and his face suddenly serious, taking a single step forward and seemingly covering a great distance. “I _am_ sure of myself, and if we were to fight again then I would win, Obi-Wan. I have had time to grow into my powers now, and I am far from the inexperienced boy you had the pleasure of destroying. And yet, however much I might have once wanted to, I have not come to kill you.”

“Oh? You surprise me.” Obi-Wan managed to keep his voice light. “To what do I owe this visit then?”

Anakin kept his blue eyes fixed on Obi-Wan’s face and was silent for a long moment, just watching him carefully. “I want you to come with me. Back to Coruscant.”

Obi-Wan would have laughed if the other man’s expression hadn’t been so deadly serious. “Whatever for?” he asked, unable to wholly prevent an incredulous note from creeping into his voice.

“I am Emperor now and it would please me. It is my will and therefore decree. Do you need any other reason?”

This time, Obi-Wan did laugh, though it was with little humour, and his eyes didn’t flicker as he drew his lightsabre and ignited it, sending blue shadows scattering in the gloom of the hut. The weapon was heavier in his hand than he remembered it being, but the dense, metallic thrumming sent a jolt of adrenaline pulsing through him. It had been too long.

“I’m rather inclined to say no. As I told you once before, my allegiance is to the Republic - to democracy.”

Anakin didn’t draw his own lightsabre, just stood very still, his face calm and his mouth twisted into a small, bitter smile.

“I have found my son.”

In the short silence that followed, Obi-Wan fancied that the cruel wind outside howled between the craggy, redstone rocks even harder, eating away at them with a ferocity he had never heard before. He shut his eyes, then carefully deactivated his lightsabre, holding the hilt tightly in his grip as he lowered it to his side.

“It seems I have no other choice but to serve my Emperor, then.”

“Do not fool yourself that you ever had any choice in the matter.” Anakin’s voice was cold. “Surrender your lightsabre.”

Obi-Wan cautiously brought his eyes up to Anakin’s face once more, hesitated for a moment in their dark green light, then nodded and loosened his white-knuckled grip on the weapon, holding it out on the flat of his palm to his former padawan. The Force touch stroked over his hand momentarily, sending a shiver up his arm, and then his lightsabre was gone, Anakin catching it deftly in one black gloved hand.

“Good.” His smile was viciously triumphant. “Now come here.”

Obi-Wan obeyed with little hesitation, his face carefully barren of emotion. He stopped just outside of Anakin’s reach, his arms crossed.

“Put these on.”

Unwillingly, a flicker of despair briefly coloured Obi-Wan’s expression as he looked at the objects held out to him in Anakin’s hand. Force inhibitors. Perhaps the cruellest thing which a Force sensitive could inflict on another Force sensitive, knowing full well what it meant to be without the warmth of a presence felt since birth. Slowly, he reached out and took the proffered devices from the leather covered palm, examining them for a moment in his severe reluctance to obey the order, before rolling back his sleeves and enclosing them about his wrists, snapping them shut.

A thick silence descended about him and he resisted the urge to mentally fight the suffocating blanket of static which had wrapped itself mercilessly about his brain. He would only exhaust himself, he knew, and he would need all of his wits about him to save Luke.

He looked up to find Anakin staring down into his eyes.

“Come.” He jerked his head towards the door, and stood aside. “I do not like this planet.”

Obi-Wan stepped past him and out the door, standing blinking in the harsh double sunlight as he tried to orientate himself in a landscape which had so suddenly become unfamiliar and unfriendly to him, unwilling to move from the safe existence he had wrought himself. A hand between his shoulder blades forced the issue, pressing him into a stumbling walk towards a small group of clone troopers standing near a large hovercraft in the lee of the redstone cliff.

The clone troopers stiffened and saluted at their arrival, soundlessly jumping onto the transport and preparing it for travel as Anakin guided Obi-Wan up the small boarding ramp and into the single spartan cabin jutting cumbersomely out of the centre of the craft.

“You will stay here until we arrive back at the ship which will take us to Coruscant.” He turned his back on Obi-Wan for a moment, picking something up from the table on the left side of the cabin. “Hold your hands out,” he said, firmly. He was casually gripping a pair of plasteel cuffs.

Obi-Wan grimaced wryly. “Are they really necessary, Anakin? I willingly surrendered myself to you. What do you think I’m capable of in this state?”

Anakin smiled, but the expression did not touch his eyes. “You always warned me of underestimating the power of others. If I learnt one thing the last time we met, it was that you were right. I _had_ underestimated you. I shall not do it again. Now hold out your hands.”

Obi-Wan reluctantly complied, and winced slightly as Anakin shut the cuffs tightly just above the Force inhibitors already holding his wrists captive. The situation he was in seemed to be getting worse and worse by the minute, and he feared that his thoughts of quickly saving Luke were rapidly becoming mere hopeless fancies. He watched silently as Anakin wordlessly left the cabin, shutting the door tightly behind him, and was unable to miss the echoing hiss of the lock compression activating.

Silently, he sat down on the hard bench against one side of the cabin, staring passively out of the window at the sun-bleached hues of the desert around them. The engine started with a muted hum and he rocked slightly with the acceleration as they started to move, the craft eating up the distance they had to travel across the dunes. Distantly, he recognised that his mind was in turmoil - a constant state it seemed, whenever Anakin was involved - and he concentrated on his breathing, forcing the air through his lungs as he tried to focus himself. But without the presence of the Force, the task seemed unreachable, his mind balking against the heavy mental silence he had been forced into. 

Silently, he shut his eyes, and hoped that wherever Luke was, he was alright. Anakin could do whatever he liked to his old master - and most likely would without compassion, he had accepted - but if he harmed the child, Obi-Wan would fight him. And this time, he would make sure he was dead before walking away.


	2. Chapter 2

In truth, on all the occasions he had allowed himself to think on the fated reunion, Obi-Wan Kenobi had never considered it going _quite_ as it had actually happened. He had known it was inevitable that he would meet his former padawan, despite all his measured attempts at avoiding that very occurrence - knew it was as certain as the bleeding suns setting behind the shadowed dunes - and he had mused on it endlessly in the calming embrace of the Force, with the echo of Qui-Gon’s voice drifting through his mind, or whilst lying rigid on the uncomfortable board which served as his bed in the gloom of night. Most of his thoughts had ended with the unmerciful, scorching thrust of a red lightsabre, and yet on occasion he had foolishly allowed the image of Anakin - _his Anakin,_ _with laughing green eyes_ \- to intrude on his mind, strolling across the shifting sands with forgiveness in his expression, his arms held out wide and welcoming. It had been an idiotic fancy, he knew, an impossibility which had been proven beyond a doubt by his present circumstances, and yet he had been unable to help himself.

He stumbled slightly as he was pushed firmly down the gangway, his legs shaky and uncertain beneath him after the long distance travelled through hyperspace, his arms still uncomfortably bound behind him as they had been for the duration of the flight. Surrounded by a six-strong escort of clones, he stepped clumsily off the metal ramp of the Lambda-class shuttle and onto the cold, obsidian surface of what he assumed to be the Imperial hangar’s floor, immediately being impersonally manoeuvred forward to a preordained space at the side. The clone troopers encircled him, upright and tense, hands on their blasters, and he waited patiently for the unknown, casting a swift cursory glance about the darkly shadowed depths of the hangar, noting every inactive starfighter and shuttle and carefully storing away the information for further private examination.

He knew transport off of Coruscant in the company of a five-year-old and against the wishes of the Emperor was not going to be easy.

The Force inhibitors were itching with a burning pulsation against his flesh, his senses drastically reduced and dulled without the Force’s presence, and as a result he only noticed the human man walking towards the ship as he became detached from the gloom and crossed his peripheral vision. Obi-Wan turned his head slightly and regarded the stranger, observing the pressed finery he wore, the dark skin and the proud expression, and was reminded strongly of a politician. And, if his deductions were true, a favoured one at that, as he was the only noticeable welcoming party for the Emperor, who had even omitted the customary red carpet and clone battalion to mark his triumphant return. Anakin had apparently developed a taste for subtlety since they had parted last.

The stranger didn’t look at him, his dark eyes intently fixed instead on the lit maw of the starship, and Obi-Wan turned back to his original position, carefully schooling his features blank as Anakin appeared from within its depths and descended, his black-clad figure imposing, posture rigid and his eyes glinting as his gaze swept physically over the Jedi. Obi-Wan took a deep, steadying breath as all the clone troopers around him stood stiffly to attention. Without the calming influence of the Force, it was a struggle not to shudder under that gaze, frissons of cold electricity shuddering up his spine.

Anakin stepped gracefully off the gangway, his cloak swirling slightly about him and revealing the two lightsabres which were hung at his side, their double act unnatural, metal gleaming in the sparse lighting overhead. It was a message not lost on Obi-Wan.

The Emperor nodded slightly at the man standing in front of him. “Senator Barbas.”

“My lord.” Barbas bowed elegantly. “I hope that your venture was a success.” His eyes flickered over to encompass Obi-Wan briefly, his expression cold and uninterested, before shifting back almost immediately.

Anakin smiled, showing a little too much teeth. “It was. I have collected my son and the Jedi that sought to hide him from me. Tatooine certainly holds more treasures than its unwholesome atmosphere would at first suggest.”

He turned and gestured to Obi-Wan with one gloved hand, walking smoothly towards him and drawing the senator with him. He stopped directly in front of him and Obi-Wan resisted the urge to back away from that dreadful smile, instead pressing his lips firmly together and meeting the gaze with as much tenacity as he could muster in the circumstances, dark green clashing with blue-green depths, his bound hands clenched into aching fists behind him.

“I don’t believe you’ve ever met Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi master and my former mentor, Senator Barbas. You succeeded your brother-in-law to the Senate after the initial purges, I remember, and he had long since fled and hid by then.” The cold tone was mockingly indifferent.

Barbas nodded, his expression unreadable. “Indeed, my lord. I have never met the famous General Kenobi before.” His flat, dark brown eyes traced over Obi-Wan’s face in an intense, uncomfortable scrutiny. “But I have heard much about him, and I look forward to learning more.”

Obi-Wan forced his lips into a small smile, and bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement. “You do me honour, senator. However, I am not a terribly interesting man.”

Barbas’ mouth stretched. “I find that hard to believe, general. It was, after all, your actions which helped shape the empire.”

That hurt. Obi-Wan’s eyes slid out of focus for a moment as he fought to keep his emotions under his control, the senator’s clever, smiling face becoming a shadowy blur. A cheap shot, and yet it had hit its mark with unerring accuracy. He would have to work on building up his defences, it seemed, or he would never survive any probing into his past life.

“The chamber you requested has been readied, my lord.”

“Good.” Anakin nodded at the clone standing to Obi-Wan’s left. “Take the prisoner down to the lower levels and put him in a cell. I shall be down shortly.”

“Yes, sir.”

Obi-Wan didn’t meet Anakin’s gaze this time as he passively turned to follow the leading clone after a small firm shove on his shoulder from behind - was entirely unsure whether he would be able to sustain eye contact for any prolonged amount of time without allowing the man access to his inner most thoughts and uncertainties. His calm mask was the only weapon available to him now, and he didn’t plan on surrendering it anytime soon to the Sith.

A shrill cry from behind him halted his steps, and he spun around, adrenaline pounding through his blood making him feel dizzy, ignoring the hard armour-encased body which slammed into him and stole his breath, the clone trooper in question too surprised at the sudden movement to halt his momentum. He recognised that sound.

Luke.

Obi-Wan stared up to the top of the gangway, his mouth dry, his eyes fixing on the small boy struggling in the arms of a clone, silhouetted by the light spilling outwards from the depths of the ship. The tiny figure threw back his head and opened his mouth wide, the air filling with that sound again, a desperate wail of anger and fear and confusion, feet kicking wildly. Suddenly, he slipped in the clone’s grasp and fell, and Obi-Wan’s heart caught in his throat for a painful moment as the small body hit the ramp, but the five-year-old was up and running immediately with no apparent injury.

Blood roaring in his ears, Obi-Wan forced his eyes away from the scene and glanced across at Anakin, who had taken a step forward and was frowning darkly, his lips set in a taut, unforgiving line. He signalled sharply with his hand and several clone troopers began running across the vast ground space of the hangar, others materialising from within the depths of the ship, all moving inexorably towards the small boy whose face was contorted in panic as he tried to desperately outmanoeuvre them all by running in between the struts of the starships.

Escape at this juncture was an impossibility, Obi-Wan knew, and the lad was outnumbered and outclassed, the humiliation brought about by the spectacle only increasing the more he prolonged his attempt at freedom. Anakin would be furious, and Obi-Wan shuddered to think of that dark emotion being directed purely at his son. He had to do something.

He took a step forward, ignoring the clone trying to block his way and moved around him, shrugging off the hand on his shoulder.

“Luke!”

The small boy turned his head and saw him, immediately angling his footsteps in his direction, a hopeful expression lighting up his tear stained features as he sped up, injecting his last reserves of energy into the mad dash and managing to avoid the outstretched hands of the clones following him. He propelled himself into Obi-Wan who nearly fell over without the luxury of arms to balance himself, wrapping his small arms tightly around his legs and pressing his warm, damp face into the folds of his tunic.

Obi-Wan thought he heard “Old Ben” mixed in with the muffled sobs coming from the level of his thighs, and his heart burned within his chest, wishing more than ever for his hands to be free so he could comfort the young child. Instead, he slowly sank to his knees, allowing Luke time to change to his new position, the arms now wrapped firmly around his chest and his tunic developing a growing wet patch as the tears continued to flow. He was extremely aware of the steadily amassing clone troopers about them, and of the stronger presence walking slowly towards where he knelt.

“It’s going to be alright, Luke,” he said softly, soothingly, his words much more certain than his thoughts. “Old Ben’s here and he’s not going to allow anything to happen to you. It’s going to be alright, don’t you worry. You’re a very brave boy. It’s alright.”

A large, gloved hand gently cradled the boy’s head for a moment, and Obi-Wan felt a whisper of the Force as Luke’s grip suddenly loosened, his body going boneless and sagging against his own before slowly collapsing to the floor. Obi-Wan looked at him for a long minute, studying the small fair face relaxed in sleep, though still red and blotchy from tears, moisture shining on the smooth cheeks, willing his tumultuous emotions back under control. Slowly, he reluctantly raised his head and glanced up at Anakin towering above him, gazed into the intense, angry face for a moment, noting the grim line of his lips and his darkly flashing eyes, before turning his expression back to the floor.

“He is merely a child, and he is disorientated and upset. He is only disobedient because he does not know you for his father. Therefore, the fault is mine, not his.”

There was a tense silence.

“Do not seek to manipulate me, Obi-Wan.”

“I would not dream of it. I am merely reminding you of the facts. I did not ask his permission before taking him to Tatooine, after all.”

Anakin took a step closer, his boots intruding on the floor space Obi-Wan had his eyes fixed on, and his gloved hand wrapped itself tightly about his throat, the soft leather warm against his skin. Obi-Wan braced himself and winced in pain as the fingers constricted, forcing him up from his knees until he was standing once more, the bruising grip not relenting in the slightest as Anakin studied him closely, picking him apart with his angry eyes.

“The boy knew you.”

“He knows me.”

“A father?”

He laughed wryly, the noise strangled slightly by the hand wrapped around his neck. “A crazy old man living out in the wastes.”

The fingers tightened momentarily and Obi-Wan began to feel light-headed, dancing stars beginning to contract and swell before his eyes, staying perfectly acquiescent in the strong grip which held him. Suddenly, he was released with a slight push, and he stumbled back a step, bending over slightly as he slowly recovered, his heart rate slowing, taking deep breaths to clear the haze from the front of his mind.

“Take him to his cell.”

Hands took hold of his arms and directed him forcefully around, marching him towards the doors exiting the hangar, and Obi-Wan could do little but keep one foot in front of the other as they moved, unable to even cast a final glance over his shoulder to see what became of Luke.

~

Obi-Wan didn’t move as the lock hissed open and the durasteel door of his cell slid back, letting in a recycled draft of cool, dry air. He kept his eyes shut as the light, familiar footsteps crossed over the threshold and drew nearer to him, his face blank and his legs crossed beneath him on the hard bench.

“You do not have contact with the Force, Obi-Wan.”

He allowed a small smile to flicker across his features momentarily. “Perhaps not. But that does not render meditating ineffective. I fear, however, that you never learnt that as a padawan.”

The feet moved a step nearer and something brushed softly against his cheek. He opened his eyes and jerked awkwardly backwards from the bare, outstretched hand on his skin, shocked by the contact, his enforced attempt at inner calm immediately shattering under the gentle touch. He glanced up at Anakin whose face was grim and set, his bare fingers still momentarily outstretched, the glove from his right hand grasped in his left. Swiftly, Obi-Wan dropped his eyes, his mouth dry. Too late, he realised his instinctive reaction had broken every self-imposed rule he had made, and he shifted back to his original position knowing that he could not undo the damage: the hand had already dropped.

“How’s Luke?” he asked, his voice steady despite his rapidly pulsating heart, not looking up into the Sith’s face, worried of what he might see there.

There was a tense pause.

“Why do you care so much?” Anakin’s voice was low and cold. 

“I owe it to a man I once loved. I see that man in Luke, sometimes.”

“That man is dead.”

“I know. I watched him die.”

Anakin was silent for a moment. “My son is fine. He is still asleep and being monitored by a droid in his room.”

A strong surge of relief flooded Obi-Wan, and his shoulders sagged slightly as the pressure of that particular guilt was removed from his mind. He glanced up into Anakin’s face, meeting his slightly narrowed eyes with his own. “Will I be able to see him?”

“Perhaps. If you’re very good.”

Anakin’s smile was cruel and calculating as he reached out again, brushing his bare, rough knuckles down Obi-Wan’s cheek. The gesture held none of the gentleness of the first and he pressed his lips tightly together but this time consciously did not shift away, submitting to the touch with reluctance heavy in his chest. Anakin was angry. He understood how the words related to the action with painful clarity.

“What do you think to gain by having me here?” he asked, his voice sounding wearier in his own ears than he had intended. “What do you want?”

“A great many things.”

And, really, there was no answer to that. Anakin would only tell him his reasons when the time was best for Anakin, regardless of Obi-Wan’s feelings on the matter. Or perhaps because of them. He had always enjoyed keeping his master in the dark.

“You seem to have a hand again.”

Still resting warmly on his face, the bone knuckles of the hand in question dug into his flesh for a moment, forcing him backwards slightly and smearing his cheek painfully out of place. Anakin laughed softly, and it was not a particularly comforting sound.

“Yes, I do. I have an entirely new body to match it, as well. It seemed somewhat necessary after how you left me on Mustafar. My true master created it for me just before I killed him.”

Obi-Wan felt slightly nauseous. He had wondered at the man’s appearance, had considered certain ideas, but he had never heard of any technology which could have made his thoughts possible, and so he had dismissed them as entirely irrational. Five years of living a life as a hermit, and he had a lot to learn of what had happened in that time: what advancements had been made without his notice and how the politics of the galaxy had changed.

There really was nothing left now of the man he had once known. Neither mentally, nor physically.

There was a slight, low chuckle from above him. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Obi-Wan.” The knuckles were replaced by fingers, the rough pads smoothing across his skin and tracing the contours of his face, a thumb gently stroking down one eyelid and brushing against his lower lip, the touch warm and lingering. “You don’t have to fear me.”

“The Jedi fear nothing.”

“The Jedi are liars.”

Obi-Wan stood up abruptly, forcing the other man back a step. He studied Anakin’s face, his brow drawn into a frown, losing himself in the self-satisfied twist of a mouth and the dark eyes for a moment before mentally shaking himself free.

“And you are a Sith, Emperor. What knowledge can you claim to have on the Jedi way, when you, yourself, failed it?”

“The system failed _me_.” Anakin’s voice was soft and deadly.

Obi-Wan had to bite back the immediate retort which came to his lips, forcing down the anger and frustration which was beginning to bubble dangerously inside of him. He had not been planning to directly antagonise the other man, knowing that it would do more harm than good, but without the Force his emotions seemed erratic and uncontrollable. He was acting before he was thinking - something he hadn’t done since he had been a padawan himself - and it was an extremely ill-advised course of action. He needed all his wits about him when dealing with Anakin.

“Perhaps you are right,” he replied, neutrally.

“And now you seek to manipulate me again.”

The Force pressed in about him, an angry band closing restrictively about his chest, and Obi-Wan had to swallow back the uncomfortable claustrophobia welling up in his throat, his ears ringing with a strange, high-pitched intensity. His hands throbbed behind him and his own mind instinctively probed at the barrier lying between himself and his own reserves of the Force, seeking to defend himself and yet only succeeding in making his vision indistinct and blurry as a thick, impenetrable blanket wrapped itself tightly around his brain. He staggered against the cold cell wall, disorientated, both his chest and his head hurting.

“Is it so obvious?” he gasped.

“Always. You are not very good at it.” Anakin paused, the pressure mercifully subsiding. “And I know you too well.” He walked calmly towards the door.

Obi-Wan didn’t argue as he sagged against the wall, his chest heaving as he sucked in air, shaking his head to clear the static which had painfully descended. When he heard the whirring of a machine over the blood thumping in his ears, he glanced up from the floor, his eyes widening slightly as he watched the steady progress of the medical droid coming towards him, a needle most evident in one of its retractable appendages. Behind the droid stood Anakin, face expressionless, and Obi-Wan straightened stiffly as he stepped closer, stopping so near that his dark robe brushed against his own.

The hand on his shoulder was gentle though unexpected, and he flinched slightly as the warmth from the touch soaked through into his skin.

“Turn around, Obi-Wan,” Anakin murmured, softly.

He hesitated for a long moment, then unhappily complied, the hand on his shoulder encouraging his movement as he slowly twisted, his eyes fixing stubbornly to the far wall. He shivered as fingers traced down his arm, pulling back his bunched sleeves further and lingering over his bare wrists, stroking over a pulse point for a moment before moving over the Force inhibitors and to the cuffs. With deft precision, they were released, and Obi-Wan winced in pain as his bones twisted to their rightful position in his shoulder sockets, thankful at least for that small mercy.

A large hand wrapped itself tightly about his wrist and pulled him around, and he stared up into Anakin’s glittering eyes as they stood chest to chest for a long moment, their gazes locking with a daunting intensity. Then the other man nodded slightly towards the droid.

“Hold still. This won’t hurt.”

His voice was unbearably soft as he carefully drew out Obi-Wan’s arm, carefully rolling the sleeve firmly back and baring the cream of his underarm to the cold air, angling it slightly downwards. The droid rolled steadily nearer, and Obi-Wan swallowed as the metal needle flashed in the harsh lighting above.

“This isn’t necessary, Anakin.”

“Perhaps not. But I want to be able to properly settle you down into your new quarters, and I prefer it this way.”

Obi-Wan didn’t reply, pressing his lips tightly together as he felt the needle enter his arm just below the crook of his elbow, the chosen vein swelling as the clear liquid was forced into it, leaving his flesh feeling strangely numb as it withdrew.

The cold, prickly numbness quickly spread up his arm and consumed his chest, flowing down through his stomach and into his legs. He wavered slightly as his knees gave way, two strong arms wrapping themselves about him before he could fall, gently lowering him to the floor. He opened his mouth to say something, perhaps to protest, but his mind was spinning and he couldn’t seem to concentrate, and it was such a pointless effort after all. He distantly felt his sleeve being rolled back down into its original position, the material scratchy and coarse against his cold skin, and his arm was carefully positioned over his chest as he shut his eyes, succumbing to the darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

Awareness filtered slowly back to him, disassociated thoughts and perceptions trickling through the thick darkness swirling in his mind and gradually solidifying into tangible cognition. He was lying on something soft, he thought hazily, and he considered the possibility that he hadn’t been so luxuriously comfortable in a very long time.

Something foreign stirred within his mind, detached and considering and somehow terribly familiar.

“It’s about time, Obi-Wan.”

The voice was familiar too. Soft, dry and with just a slight undercurrent of impatience hinting at something which he couldn’t quite grasp, something which drifted just out of reach in the warm fog which blanketed his mind. A strange face slowly materialised out of the darkness, shaped by his thoughts and the voice and yet somehow _wrong_ , the features unrecognisable, twisted and out of place.

His heart thumped dully in his chest, a slow, soothing beat echoing in his temples, and he considered the merit of simply going back to sleep. His mind was drowsily swollen with half-formed thoughts, and his head felt heavy enough to sink through the blessedly soft pillow it was resting on. He couldn’t even summon the energy to open his eyes and sort out the face lingering on the edges of his perception, and the need to do so was slowly fading into obscurity.

But something niggled, sharp and awkward, denying him peace and slowly tearing through the shroud of unconsciousness which was wrapping itself about his mind. The voice and the face and the circumstances were all wrong, and there was something he was missing, something he couldn’t quite work out.

The thing in his mind shifted again, subtle and sinuous, wrapping itself about his thoughts and encroaching upon them in an entirely uncomfortable way. Nausea lurched deep down in his stomach, and he internally studied the unwelcome presence with as much ability as his spinning head allowed him, noting its signature and pattern as the unsettling familiarity bubbled up in his throat once more. He considered it solemnly for a moment, then pushed at it slightly with his mind, probing cautiously.

There was a slight chuckle from above him, low and full of dark humour, and the presence dissipated.

Curiosity pressed in around him, dispelling the sleep from the befuddled corners of his mind, and he opened his eyes - or at least _tried_ to. When his eyelids stayed resolutely shut, momentary confusion descended, quickly followed by hot panic as he went through the thoughtless, everyday motions again and received the same results. Nothing. He spent several long moments trying to force his eyes open, straining with unresponsive muscles, his world remaining dark and meaningless despite his determination and his heart thumping slow and heavy in his chest. Desperately, he tried to move his hands up to physically open his eyes, and yet, to his extreme consternation, they did not respond either, despite his insistent mental demands, staying limp and impassive on the soft material he was lying on.

A hand gently smoothed down the bare skin of his arm, steady fingers tickling down past his elbow and tracking imaginary veins to his wrist. Obi-Wan’s breath caught roughly in his throat for a moment at the touch, escaping jaggedly through his dry, slightly parted lips as he struggled to clear the enveloping fog from his brain. There was a connection here somewhere - the touch, the voice, the haze - and if he could just focus for a second he could try and figure out what that was. He felt the knowledge might be somehow important.

The fingers disappeared from his wrists and he felt them ghost over his forehead, stroking back the unruly, sweat-soaked hair from his clammy skin and lingering at his temples.

“Disphedane is an interesting drug.” The voice was soft and amused, emanating from slightly above him and strangely fuzzy in his own ears. “The plant it derives from is only sparsely harvested on one of the moons of Mimban, and, as a result, it’s rather obscure and difficult to obtain. But the side effects make it more than worthwhile.”

The partner to the hand on his face came to rest lightly on his hip, the rough pad of a thumb outlining circular patterns on the bare skin, and Obi-Wan’s mind flinched away from it where his own body could not, lashing out at the presence with all the unbridled confusion gathered inside of him.

And something _shifted_.Inside and out. Blessed release when he hadn’t even been looking for it, didn’t quite understand it either. It was as if a cool breeze had swept through him, tearing at the edges of the cloying fog enmeshed suffocatingly within his mind and ripping it free.

There was a slight, sharp intake of breath from above him, and something constricting and unforgiving suddenly wrapped itself tightly about his brain, forcefully cutting off his new found awareness and sending his thoughts spiralling in the pain that tore through him. A body leant over him, pressing heavily into him, fingers digging cruelly into his shoulder.

“I will not tolerate the Force being used against me, Obi-Wan. Try my patience again and I shall revoke my kindness and replace the Force inhibitors. Remember that.”

He knew that voice, soft and quick to anger. Knew it better than any other.

Things started to very horribly make sense.

The body - Anakin’s - shifted backwards, away from him, his presence not so overwhelming and the grip on his shoulder mercifully loosening. The hold he had on his brain, however, only slightly abated to the point where it didn’t hurt with such dizzying intensity and Obi-Wan could draw breath. It was a wrong and most unsettling feeling - that constant, invasive scrutiny - and he wondered whether Anakin was taking advantage of weakened defences or, more disturbingly, whether his former padawan had mastered the Force to a degree he had never even considered. It certainly shouldn’t have been possible for the Sith to have such a confident grasp on the mind of a tried and practiced Jedi, regardless of drug-addled senses and old, broken bonds. It was most worrying.

“You fret too much, Obi-Wan,” Anakin whispered, his voice drifting down from above, humour colouring his words once more.

The fingers still at his hip skittered across his unwillingly acquiescent flesh, across his stomach, their light, inquisitive touch persistent and uncomfortable, gently brushing over his skin and making his flesh goose pimple. He had never felt so frustratingly helpless before, the skin of his chest overly warm as the hand smoothed over it, and he could do nothing but lie there and accept the unsettling exploration with patience, ignoring it as best he could by trying to orientate himself in his surroundings. He wasn’t very successful, jolted back to the painful reality of the situation as a finger lazily circled a sensitive nipple.

“I must admit, I quite like you like this, Jedi,” Anakin said, his voice filled with a dark delight. “Soft and pliable and unable to argue. Such a perfect combination.”

A thumb dragged roughly over the abused bud, nail digging in, and Obi-Wan stiffened at the sensation, a soft cry unexpectedly escaping his unguarded lips.

“But it seems the paralysis is beginning to wear off. Pity.”

Obi-Wan’s eyelids fluttered ineffectually against his flushed cheeks as he focused himself entirely on opening them again, once, twice, straining against the barely responsive muscles, three times, four. On the fifth attempt, he succeeded, blinking slowly against the soft light as it flooded his senses and casting a quick, cursory glance about the large chamber before squinting up at the dark figure sitting languidly on the bed next to him.

Anakin didn’t look any less imposing without the black cloak and formal clothes, the loose material of the dark tunic he wore doing nothing to cover the hard, muscled body he had strived to hone to perfection ever since being accepted into the Jedi fold. And nothing could hide the authoritative stillness held in his expression and the confidence inherent in his relaxed posture either, controlled and deliberate power surrounding him in such a dense, palpable aura that Obi-Wan fancied he could taste it in the warm air he breathed.

The Anakin Skywalker he had known five years previous had not carried such an indomitable presence. There was none of the uncertain boy left in the hard, unforgiving mouth, nor in the dark, steady eyes staring down at him unremittingly. Becoming a Sith, killing your master and ruling an Empire did that to a man, it seemed.

Anakin was closely watching him, his eyes flat and unreadable.

“Judging me, Obi-Wan?” One corner of his mouth twisted upwards in an unpleasant smile. “You have not changed in the slightest. I thought you would have learnt to rectify that particular character flaw in your time spent in the desert, at least.”

Obi-Wan wouldn’t have argued that, even if he had been physically able to. There was a time and a place for everything, and he didn’t believe that here and now was anywhere near the ideal in which to have the conversation he knew they would one day have to undergo. There was too much resentment and bitter loss involved in their shared past to lay open that particular wound with heated, thoughtless words. It could only serve to make the impossible situation worse.

There were other, less dangerous things to discuss now.

It took several long minutes before Obi-Wan thought enough feeling had returned to his tongue to chance words, would have preferred longer but he felt he could not weather the Sith’s concentrated, volatile gaze relentlessly locked on his face a moment more, desperately needing something to ease the building tension before it became uncontrollable.

“Puhease -” his tongue felt heavy and swollen in his mouth, unable to articulate properly and seemingly reacting to his mental demands with a second’s delay, slipping over the words clumsily “- ghet ouht of my heaht.” 

An embarrassing first attempt and something which he would not dwell on, but it served its purpose well. Anakin’s eyes flickered close for a moment, opening with the slightest glimmer of mockery replacing the disquieting glow of violence which had been rapidly forming in their depths.

“Since you asked so nicely, I’ll grant you some privacy.”

He paused, breathed, and Obi-Wan’s mind was free again, unconstrained and unhindered, the thumping pain of Anakin’s presence in his brain disappearing as swiftly as it had come. Immediately, he slammed heavy shields into place, guarding his thoughts and feelings from violation, unwilling to allow other unwanted intruders in.

“But I was not speaking lightly before,” Anakin continued, his voice soft and filled with dangerous authority. “I will not hesitate to put the Force inhibitors back on you, Obi-Wan. I act merely out of kindness allowing you this freedom for I know how it feels to be bereft of Its presence, and I shall only inflict that upon you in punishment.” He paused, his eyes moving to encompass the enclosed space they were in. “In addition, your chambers have been fitted with a device which will allow me to block all traces of the Force emitted from within these walls. If you act in any way which does not please me, then you will find that these rooms will quickly turn into your cell.”

He shifted his weight slightly and picked up Obi-Wan’s hand lying limply by his side, slowly tracing around the disjointed wrist with a single finger before enclosing it tightly in his grip.

“Most importantly, I expect you to submit to me. If I ask it, you shall drop your shields and allow me entrance to your mind without hesitation. If you refuse to, I shall force my way through, and I should expect that experience to be excruciatingly damaging.” He paused, then turned his head and regarded Obi-Wan solemnly. “I mean it.”

Obi-Wan shut his eyes and didn’t reply immediately, mulling the words over with a calm he felt entirely separated from, pressing his numbed lips firmly together as his heart clenched painfully in his chest at the idea of laying himself willingly bare to the Sith’s mind. He had never done it before - the one time he had offered, a desperate expression of trust and love mixed with the foibles of youth, Qui-Gon had firmly turned him down with a slight frown - and he was unsure whether he actually _could_. The implications of what Anakin was asking were simply too immense, demanding a trust and a love which had long ago been wrested unwillingly from Obi-Wan - taken forcefully by Anakin himself.

“You do not know what you ask.” His speech was still clumsy but manageable enough that he could imbue the words with sincerity whilst hiding the incredulous horror eating away at his mind.

“Do not underestimate me. I know precisely what I ask.”

Cool fingertips collected in the hollow of his throat, tracing the dark shadows softly. Obi-Wan swallowed, Anakin’s palm gently pressing into the line of his neck, a whispered threat in the pressure he didn’t need to inflict.

“What do you want from me?”

Soft laughter met the words as they tripped awkwardly off his tongue. Familiar laughter, and Obi-Wan fancied that if he shut his eyes he could be in a different time, a different place, the ghosts of dead memories echoing in the crevices of his mind, still plaguing him even now.

Anakin’s hands left his body, and he stood, the bed dipping slightly as his warm weight left it. Obi-Wan followed him carefully with his eyes as he moved leisurely to the side of the room, stopping at a counter against one wall and pouring himself a glass of blood red liquid from a crystal decanter resting there. Anakin turned, glass held to his chest, and surveyed him for a long moment, gaze trailing up his body and over his bare chest before coming to rest on his face. He held up the drink and inclined his head slightly in a toast, his lips curving upwards slightly as he brought the glass up and drank deeply.

Obi-Wan’s index finger on his right hand twitched slightly against the cream bed sheets, then his thumb.

Anakin refilled his glass, then slowly moved back to the bed.

“What would you say if I were to tell you I was looking for a new apprentice?” His tone was neutral, his dark eyes fixed on Obi-Wan’s, towering over him as he stood by the edge of the bed.

Obi-Wan met his gaze unflinchingly. “I would say that you were a fool.”

“And if I were to reverse your aging process?” Anakin’s expression was pleasant. “Turn you back to that obedient, eager to please, impressionable padawan you once were? Remove your experiences and destroy your memories of Qui-Gon, Yoda and the fact that you were once the master?” He paused, and took a small sip from the glass. “What then?”

Obi-Wan’s mind faltered, something lurching painfully in his stomach as the terrible words filtered through. Blank, desperate horror filled him as panic wrapped its tendrils about his brain, unable to comprehend quite what it would mean to have his entire life rewritten, his entire life stolen from him, unable to absorb the magnitude of the idea. His experiences made him who he was, for good or for bad, and though many were painful he would not take them back. And to not remember Qui-Gon, or Yoda, or to have to grow up again, living life through the dark side, Anakin as his unchallenged master without knowing what had passed between them - it was simply unimaginable. It was cruel.

“It’s not possible,” he whispered, gazing up imploringly at the Sith standing over him.

Anakin smiled, and took another casual sip of his drink. “Perhaps not.”

Obi-Wan shut his eyes tightly, breathing deeply. He willed his heart rate slower, letting the fear drain out of him gradually, leaving his body feeling weak and tired. He was wary of the spark of anger kindled inside of him - frustration at his helplessness manifesting deep within his brain - and he snuffed it out before it could be fanned into flames by Anakin’s clever tongue. His fingers were digging painfully into the bed sheets beneath him without his even noticing, and he consciously relaxed them.

Anakin laughed softly. “At the moment, you will be glad to hear that I am not looking for an apprentice. I plan for my son to be old enough to fulfil the role, however, when I am. I sense great potential in him.”

The alternative didn’t seem any less bleak, somehow, though it served to remind Obi-Wan why exactly it was that he was lying half naked on a bed, more than semi-paralysed and at a Sith Lord’s mercy. The sooner he escaped with Luke, the sooner he could come to terms with this entire episode and store it in the same place in his mind that he stored all the memories of his old padawan.

He didn’t open his eyes as the bed dipped once more, the other man’s weight warm and oppressive at his shoulder as Anakin shifted nearer to him, the fine cloth of his trousers brushing smoothly against his arm and sending a single shiver running through his raw nerve endings.

“No, there are other reasons why I would want you here with me, Obi-Wan.” Anakin’s voice was rough and low, breathed into his ear.

Something warm and wet touched his lips, and he started slightly, quickly blinking open his eyes. Glittering eyes met his and Anakin’s finger dipped into the glass once more, then carefully moved to hover close over his lips, a bead of dark red moisture shining in the warm light gathering at the tip. It fell, sliding softly over the curve of his lips, collecting in the corner of his mouth for a moment before trickling wetly down through his beard and becoming lost in the bed covers.

“Pride. The last of the Jedi and the one that had always mattered the most.” Anakin smiled thinly. “I couldn’t allow you to escape when it was you who I had most reason to hate. Not when I was confined in a suit which rendered me little more than a robot for more than two basic years.”

The finger returned again with another droplet, and Obi-Wan pressed his lips tightly together, allowing his head to fall heavily to one side as it fell so that it missed his lips and marked his cheek instead. It didn’t matter that he didn’t have the strength to turn his head back to its rightful position, the tendons in his neck strained slightly by the awkward position, because his point had been made. Whatever unsettling game Anakin was playing, he wanted no part of it.

Anakin merely smiled slightly and cupped his cheek, gently moving his head back to its original, more comfortable position, deftly wiping away the spilt drop with a smooth swipe of his thumb.

“Politics, as well, played a part,” he continued, ignoring the small rebellion patiently. “General Kenobi has become a name which is only spoken of in hushed, awed tones, I’m sure you’ll be amused to learn. I have it on authority that the rebel alliance has been almost as interested in finding you as I have, thinking you the only person capable of bringing me down. I didn’t particularly want them to find you before I did for obvious reasons, and I somewhat liked the irony of you serving me instead of killing me.”

When the finger returned, it did not hover as before, this time running lightly over his lower lip and spreading the blood red liquid over it, a thumb digging slightly into the flesh below his chin to prevent easy escape again. Gently, Anakin pushed against Obi-Wan’s lips, parted them, the finger slipping in and running over his gums and closed teeth, smearing the spicy, alcoholic liquid over his reeling senses, the expensive taste heady and intoxicating.

“Above all, though,” Anakin murmured softly, “I think it’s possible that I may have missed you.”

Obi-Wan looked up at him for a long moment, confusion layered thickly upon confusion in his brain, emotions an upset mess but his mind oddly going still and silent as he stared up into the Sith’s face, seeing in the dark depths of his eyes a disconcerting lack of hatred. He swallowed slightly, then looked away, and Anakin’s fingers left his mouth and face although the feel of them lingered, imprinted in his mind.

Anakin stood and quietly placed the glass on the table next to the bed.

“The paralysis should have worn off entirely a while before I return,” he said, his tone brusque and authoritative once more. “I suggest you use the time to settle into your new quarters properly.”

He paused, then glanced down into Obi-Wan’s face, his expression forbidding. “The door will be locked and I warn you that I will know if you try and tamper with it using the Force.”

He crossed the room and moved swiftly towards the exit which slid open smoothly. He passed through it, not looking back as it closed tightly behind him, leaving Obi-Wan alone and free to finally consider what he had learnt.

Shutting his eyes and breathing in deeply, the Jedi began the daunting task of trying to sort it all out.


	4. Chapter 4

Obi-Wan’s eyes flickered momentarily closed as the door slid open behind him, the shadow-bright landscape he had been staring at for some minutes imprinted purple and gold on the blackness behind his eyelids. He paused, then turned regretfully away from the hot, red orb of the setting sun as it sank slowly towards the jagged, urban horizon of skyscrapers, the sky tinged a rosy pink and filled with the golden underbellies of clouds.

Despite the sprawling megalopolis which marred its surface, it could not be denied that Coruscant had its moments of natural glory, and Obi-Wan found it hard to prevent the nostalgia creeping down his throat and into his stomach where it tugged with an ache which felt distinctly like regret. He could remember watching sunsets like this one on tiptoes from the north facing window in the younglings’ dormitory, small fingers tightly clenching the sill, tongue dry as he breathed in shallowly through a mouth parted in childish wonder. The sight was no less impressive now, and he allowed himself the rueful thought that it had even perhaps been improved by his absence. 

It seemed the beauty was lost on his visitor, however, whose eyes were fixed solely on Obi-Wan’s face, ignoring the shining window he was stood, silhouetted, in front of.

“His Imperial Highness extends an invitation for you to join him for dinner, General Kenobi.”

Senator Barbas’ face was blankly smooth as he spoke, his dark eyes veiled and his hands hidden in the shadows of the fine grey cloak he was wearing. He appeared perfectly at ease in what had to be an abnormal situation even by Imperial standards, unconcerned by the message he brought and the circumstances he delivered it in, and confidently indifferent to his unannounced intrusion into what Obi-Wan was reluctant to call - but knew to be - his personal quarters.

In that moment, Obi-Wan recognised something in the senator that was familiar, a similarity to a small number of acquaintances in his previous life and it jerked his awareness sharply; he wondered whether Anakin could see it too. There was something there, a subtlety which could be read in the line of his shoulders, the light in his eyes, the meaningless curve of his lips. An intensity of depth. _Danger._

Obi-Wan smiled politely. “This is an unfortunate situation indeed, then, senator, for I must decline.” He gestured to his bare chest and loose sleeping trousers - the only garment he had been wearing when he had awoken from his drugged state - and shrugged slightly, apologetic. “I have nothing to wear.”

Barbas returned the smile coldly with an economy of feeling, turning slightly and gesturing to the open doorway. A droid appeared, a cloth bundle in its mechanical arms, and Obi-Wan watched its approach with unblinking eyes.

“It is fortunate that our Emperor is so far-sighted, then.”

Obi-Wan could have laughed then. He could have cried. Instead, he simply folded his arms across his chest and nodded. He had little choice in the matter, after all.

“Indeed.”

With a certainty designed to disguise his discomfort, he moved briskly towards the droid, the thought of hesitation crossing his mind only for a heartbeat as he passed the senator standing silently in the centre of the room. He accepted the soft bundle and nodded to the droid, then turned to Barbas.

“Allow me a moment to change, and I shall be with you shortly, senator.”

Barbas’ lip curled upwards slightly in a humour which Obi-Wan did not share. “Good. I would advise speed, General. It does not do to keep the Emperor waiting.” He inclined his head in the shallowest form of a bow. “I shall await you outside.”

And he turned and left, leaving Obi-Wan alone in the room with his thoughts, the bundle of clothes clutched in one hand and the trace of a frown on his face.

~

Despite the sumptuous array of food laid before him and the fact that he hadn’t eaten a full meal since he had been captured, Obi-Wan found he had very little appetite. He toyed with a piece of crusty bread in his lap, tearing at it with strong fingers, careless of the mess he was making and perhaps even taking some pleasure in it, his eyes fixed to the other end of the polished table and to the sole other diner.

Anakin seemed unfazed by the scrutiny, his platter piled high with an assortment of the rich food.

“You should eat, Obi-Wan.”

“I know.”

Anakin’s knife grated across the porcelain plate as he cut into his steak, the sharp, jarring noise making Obi-Wan lose his composure momentarily as he winced in discomfort. His hands contracted and then went still, their destruction of the crust going unfinished.

“Then is there a reason you’re not?” Anakin asked pleasantly, his eyes lifting from his plate, a small smile on his lips. “Is it some slight to the Imperial kitchens? Do you not like it?”

Obi-Wan thought that he could physically feel the atmosphere in the grand room change, the air thinning and becoming more difficult to breath after every silky question, his green-blue gaze clashing with the Sith’s dark green. Carefully, he placed what was left of the bread back on the table.

“I’m not hungry, Anakin. That’s all.”

There was a complete silence. Even the constant traffic pollution from outside in the teeming streets of Coruscant was stifled, the thick golden red drapes hanging from the huge windows swallowing sound as effectively as they blocked out the last rays of the sun.

“You haven’t eaten in over a day and a half.”

“Yes, I know. I find it rather disconcerting myself.”

The silence returned. Anakin slowly laid down his cutlery although the food on his plate was not even half finished, his dark eyes still focused unrelentingly on Obi-Wan’s face, the unsettling smile fading into a straight line and thinned lips which was somehow even worse.

“I shan’t let you starve, Obi-Wan,” he said softly.

The dreadful irony of those words brushed against Obi-Wan’s nerves. He forced a wry smile, choosing not to see the ready humour in the situation and instead being engulfed by the chill of familiar sorrow. Memory painted the backs of his eyes with a different time, a happier place, and he was unable to prevent himself from contrasting that scene with the mutated ruins of what was left.

Anakin had always been very solicitous of what his master ate.

“I’m very glad to hear that. I always upheld the notion that there wouldn’t be a worse way to end one’s days. I’m rather fond of my food.”

“Then _eat_.” The man bit out the words slowly, his tone encouraging no argument, his hand jabbing out to indicate the vast quantities of food on the table. He settled back in his chair, his spine held rigid with an unrelenting air of impatience, seemingly waiting for his unwilling guest to obey.

Obi-Wan paused, frowned slightly, then said with sincerity, “Perhaps it’s merely a need to settle down a bit more first. Being back here -- well, it’s been a bit of a shock, to be entirely truthful.” He swallowed. “There’s a world of difference between Tatooine and Coruscant.”

At that, Anakin laughed. Long and loud and brutal.

“I know.”

Obi-Wan’s hands itched for the bread again, and he glanced swiftly down at the space of table in front of him, his gaze running over the silverware and china, his fingers skimming unseen along the hem of the fine tablecloth, tugging slightly, anything to distract him. He could feel Anakin’s eyes on him.

“Don’t ever forget that I lived in the sand of Tatooine for nine years, Obi-Wan.” His voice was terribly soft, a raw quality about it, bitterness perhaps. “And the difference is that you _chose_ to run there, to hide there, and I grew up there as a slave with no rights to dream of any other existence than the one I had been born into. You had choice and I had none.” A pause. “You could have returned whenever you liked.”

Obi-Wan looked up, his jaw set and the corner of his mouth twisted wryly upwards. “You’re correct, of course, Anakin,” he said quietly. “I had every right to return here at any time to be butchered like all the other Jedi. I had every right to live on a more comfortable planet, one more populated, more central, more fully under the Empire’s influence. Then perhaps you would have found me within a month. Perhaps, with luck, I would have had a year, no more than two.”

Anakin’s eyes narrowed, dark and bright, meeting Obi-Wan’s gaze with an intangible violence, his lips curling cruelly upwards.

“And tell me, Obi-Wan, what did you gain with your borrowed five years of freedom?” A spiteful pause. “Hope?”

The Jedi smiled benignly. “Things, I believe, that a Sith could never properly understand.” 

Anakin smirked and seemingly relaxed, although tension could still be seen in the rigid line of his neck and the hard set of his shoulders. “As much fun as all that, was it?” He reached over the table, his hand closing around the neck of a bottle. He offered it across to Obi-Wan with a slight tilt of his head, the smirk not leaving his face. “Wine?”

Obi-Wan could not prevent himself from looking away although he knew that it was exactly what Anakin wanted, his lips thinning into a tight line, humiliated heat crawling uncomfortably up his neck as his mind reeled back to the last time wine had touched his lips.

“A deal, then.” The Sith laughed softly as he poured two glasses of wine, the liquid staining the crystal glasses a dark crimson. “If you drink my wine and eat my food, Obi-Wan -” he paused, “ - I’ll let you see my son.”

Obi-Wan’s head jerked back, his gaze alighting on the other man’s face, a question in his eyes.

Anakin nodded solemnly, picking up one of the glasses and holding it out over the table where Obi-Wan could reach for it if he dared, his hand perfectly steady. “Oh, yes.” He smiled, his lips parting and flashing ivory in the artfully dimmed light. “I swear.”

~

Anakin’s hand was a warm, unwanted presence at the small of Obi-Wan’s back, guiding him through the brightly lit corridor with a pressure which was at once invasive and needless, and Obi-Wan wanted little else than to be able to shy away from the touch. He could feel the individual imprint of each long finger pressing into him, Anakin leaving a slightly splayed handprint of invisible heat that soaked through the thin material of his tunic and into the flesh of his back. A claim of property that only the two of them were aware of; a brand no one else could see.

He shivered.

“Cold, Obi-Wan?”

“Slightly, perhaps.” His lips shifted into a rueful smile. “You wear a Jedi robe too long and anywhere without it seems below the optimum temperature. I don’t suppose - ”

“It was burnt.”

He swallowed. “Oh.”

He felt a stab of regret. He didn’t think he’d be able to get used to the new cloth which covered his body: the material too thin, too soft, making the slightest touch too personal for his liking. His robe had been a comfortable reassurance, a means of anonymity that had been stripped from him the moment it had never mattered so much, and he missed the thickly woven, coarse material that assisted as much against the gritty fury of sandstorms as it did against suggestive glances and inquisitive touches. 

With Anakin’s hand still firmly at his back, they moved onwards in silence, even their footfalls cushioned in the thick, royal blue carpet that Obi-Wan supposed covered the entire floor of the Imperial wing’s personal quarters. He watched the lights set into the ceiling, eyes reflecting the strips of pure brilliance, counting as they passed beneath each one to better assess the distance they had travelled from the dining room. The knowledge could turn out to be vital some day, and he had no assurance that Anakin would ever allow him to return to their destination.

The corridor curved in a smooth bow shape, and, when the walls straightened out once more, Obi-Wan could see the door they were heading for, identifiable due to the presence of the clone trooper guard standing outside it. The guard saluted sharply as they passed but Anakin didn’t seem to even register the movement, reaching his hand out to brush his fingertips against the gelatinous sensor set into the wall and moving into the dimly lit space revealed when the durasteel panel slid back. Obi-Wan hesitated for a breath’s span, then followed.

The door slid shut behind him, totally extinguishing the light.

A trap.

“Be still.”

Obi-Wan wasn’t even aware that he had moved, and it took a few moments of orientation before he realised that he was pressed tightly against the smooth surface of the door, metal coolness seeping into his shoulder blades, fingertips searching out the tiny fissure between panel and wall. Searching for an escape.

With a frown going unseen in the dark, he mentally forced himself to relax, loosening the tense muscles in his shoulders and allowing his fingers to drop from the hard surface behind him, clasping them deliberately in front of him instead. Such jittery, unpredictable behaviour was entirely out of character for a Jedi, and he found it altogether rather alarming.

“Where are we?” he demanded, his voice knotted tight. His heart was thumping dully in his ears, and he was aware of how near he was to Anakin, a solid presence in front of him, aware of walls pressing close on either side of him but unable to determine anything else in the pitch black.

He felt the shift in the air as the body before him turned around, so near to each other now that he could feel Anakin’s warm breath trace lightly over his skin. He felt a quiver in the force, a living tendril reaching out towards him, stopping short. He shivered slightly.

“It’s an added security provision.” Obi-Wan could hear the dangerous smile in Anakin’s voice even if he couldn’t see it. “We’re standing in the only anteroom leading to my son’s room, and it has been designed so only I can exit it. If anyone else were to enter into here, they would find themselves inescapably trapped, unable to go forward or back.”

Unseen fingers suddenly brushed against his hands, trailing lightly up his arm until they reached his face where they lingered, a thumb pad rough as it stroked under the bone of his bearded jaw. The touch was somehow more intimate in the lack of light. Obi-Wan pressed his lips tightly together, shutting his eyes against the dark and only finding more darkness.

“So this is your warning, Obi-Wan, and it will be your only one. Don’t try my patience because you’ll only end up making me angry.”

Anakin’s touch remained for a moment, warm and dry on his face, then it was gone, vanishing back into the blackness. The air shifted in front of him once more and, with a compressed hiss, a door in front of them slid open, spilling light into the cramped space and making Obi-Wan wince as the brightness burned into his brain, blinking it back hard so that he could see.

The room was a modest size, smaller than the apartments granted to Obi-Wan, and yet it held a quality that his was sorely lacking, a sort of comfort, an appearance of home. The walls were all painted a warm red colour with gold and burnt umber swirls tracing along the border, the colours being picked up in the thick cream carpet on the floor in twisting patterns. The just-after-dusk darkness was hidden by long gold and cream drapes which covered the large window, and pearl wall lights cast a comforting glow on the surroundings, banishing shadows from dark places where night-scares could lurk.

It wasn’t a suitable room for a five-year-old boy - too mature, too boring - and yet Obi-Wan couldn’t dismiss the wisdom behind the decoration. Because Luke wasn’t just a five-year-old boy at this juncture; he was a captive, alone and afraid, and he had just been torn viciously from the only life he had ever known. He would need all the comfort he could get, and this room - though perhaps slightly too luxurious to be entirely reassuring - would go a great distance towards calming him.

He wondered whose idea it had been.

Obi-Wan’s eyes drifted to the bed hugging one wall, and all thoughts of décor immediately evaporated into the cool, processed air.

Luke was lying stiffly on the bed, his head dwarfed by the pillows and the blankets which were suffocatingly pulled right up to his neck. His fair hair stuck up at odd angles, his fringe smeared across his forehead and glued in place by a light sheen of sweat; his complexion was pale and slightly mottled, dark shadows collecting under his closed eyes like bruises. One hand was visible just above the bedclothes, the boy curled slightly into it, one knuckle hovering at his mouth.

Obi-Wan had never seen Luke look so small, so fragile.

A shocked sound escaped his throat and he took a step forward towards the bed, coming up sharp as a strong hand reached out and pushed firmly against his chest, stopping his process forwards. He didn’t turn to look at Anakin, his hands gripping tightly into fists by his sides.

“I said you could see him. Not anything else.”

“What have you done to him?” he demanded, his voice slightly strangled as it clawed past the emotion welling unbidden in his mouth, eyes still fixed on the motionless child lying at the other end of the room.

“It was necessary.” Anakin’s tone held a terrible stillness which would have signalled the end of the conversation to any rational mind, but Obi-Wan wouldn’t be deterred so easily.

“ _Necessary_?Why? I thought you said his vitals were normal!”

The hand on his chest increased its pressure as if Anakin wanted to shove him backwards, push him over, shut him up, force him into submission, but Obi-Wan only pushed forward more to counter it, his lips pressed tightly together in a thin line.

“When I told you of it, his vitals _were_ normal.” When Anakin spoke, his voice was at his ear, slightly breathy and full of sharp, quiet anger. “Since then, it seems he has contracted a form of altitude flu, not uncommon considering it was his first time in a spaceship since he was extremely young.”

“He’s drugged!” Obi-Wan didn’t need to reach out with the Force to feel it, the dull static of Luke’s energy signature was pressing in on his nerves, making his own head fuzzy and his centre of balance feel slightly askew. “I’m no healer but I’d guess that knocking him out will have no advantageous effect on his overall recovery.” He made no effort to prevent the sarcasm that coloured the tone of his voice. 

The hand on his chest was suddenly at his throat, pushing him backwards sharply into the shut door, Obi-Wan’s upper back colliding with the solid metal dully and violently knocking the air out of his lungs. The hand around his neck tightened mercilessly, strong fingers pressing into the square of his jaw with a bruising pressure and forcing his head up until his eyes were on a level with Anakin’s darkly handsome face.

The Sith’s eyes glittered with malice. “You’re right, Obi-Wan,” Anakin spoke softly, his voice at odds with the fingers digging cruelly into the Jedi’s neck and with the violence visible in the hard lines of his body. “The drug does inhibit the boy’s healing process. However, the best healers on Coruscant agreed collectively that it was the best action to take.” Anakin smiled suddenly, a slash of glittering teeth, and his grip on Obi-Wan’s neck constricted even further, forcing a strangled gasp out his mouth. “You see,” he paused, and leant even further in, their faces so near that Obi-Wan could see the flecks of tarnished gold in his eyes, “whenever he woke up, he wouldn’t stop screaming.”

Obi-Wan was becoming light-headed, trapped blood swelling painfully behind his eyes, and he stood there silently, the heels of his feet not touching the ground as he raised himself to take some of the pressure off his neck. Anakin was staring at him, his face still pressed up close, breaths coming short and ragged. Suddenly he pulled back, taking Obi-Wan with him before shaking him slightly and pushing him back against the door once more, seemingly satisfied as the back of Obi-Wan’s head connected solidly with the metal with a painful bang and a slight grunt of pain. Then he released him without a word.

After a pause, Obi-Wan pulled himself back up, smoothing the wrinkles from his clothing with slightly shaking fingers, his throat sore and his head aching. Anakin wasn’t looking at him, his back turned, his eyes fixed on the still figure of his son’s form, and, for a moment, Obi-Wan was glad that he couldn’t see the emotion behind those eyes. Over the years, he had regretted many of the decisions he had made when it had come to Anakin, but this was the first time he had ever doubted removing the man’s children from him.

The Sith turned back to him, his face stiff with an unreadable emotion.

“Sooner or later, Obi-Wan, he’ll know me for who I truly am.” Anakin’s voice held a curiously raw quality. “He’ll love me as a father and your failure will be complete and irreversible. He’ll hate you for what you did to him.” It was a statement of fact, not an uncertainty.

Obi-Wan suddenly felt immensely tired. “If you say so.”

Anakin hesitated, his eyes dark as they lit upon the Jedi’s face, seemingly wrong-footed by his words as they didn’t resemble the denial he had been expecting in any way, searching for some hidden meaning and not finding any.

“We’re leaving.”

Obi-Wan didn’t argue, wanting the cold solitude of the rooms that were his and yet not his with an intensity that, in normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have believed possible. He needed to get away from Anakin, get away from it all.


	5. Chapter 5

The protocol droid who delivered his breakfast fussed and worried over the colour of his napkin as it set the tray down on the table, and Obi-Wan was reminded strongly of C-3PO as he sat down and thanked it with a nod of his head.

“If you don’t mind my asking, General Kenobi, what are your plans for today?” The droid’s mechanical drawl was the epitome of politeness.

Obi-Wan lifted the slick, heavy glass of pumpanuat juice to his lips, gulping the thick, sweet liquid thirstily to rid himself of the dry mouth and slight dehydration brought on by sleeping in an atmosphere of recycled air. Then, placing the glass carefully back onto the polished surface of the table, he settled back into his hard-backed chair and busied himself with his cutlery as he appraised the very full plate of food that had been set in front of him with a slightly raised eyebrow. Anakin, it seemed, was still bent on fattening him up.

He glanced up at the droid. “I assume that wasn’t a casual question?”

“Oh no, sir.” The droid sounded slightly put out. “I have been ordered to ask every morning and report back with your reply.”

Obi-Wan sighed, and resigned himself to eating some of the honey-sweetened fruit on his plate, wishing contrarily for the porridge he had eaten every morning of every day he had spent on Tatooine and had grown distinctly sick of.

“I haven’t put much thought into it, actually.” He paused, thinking of a real breeze against his skin. “I don’t suppose you know the limits of what I can do here? Can I go outside?”

“I am sorry, sir, but I have no idea. I can recommend the palace’s private library which is considered by many to be one of the most comprehensive in the galaxy. There are also practice rooms to exercise in. I was not told whether you were allowed to go outside the palace walls, I’m afraid.”

“Who would I have to go to if I wanted to find out?”

“The Emperor, sir.”

Obi-Wan swallowed the last piece of fruit, grimacing slightly as it slithered down his throat. He put down his knife and fork and rubbed tiredly at his face with both hands, combing through his hair with his fingers for a moment before bringing his hands together in his lap, clasping them together loosely.

“Surely the Emperor has more important issues to deal with? He does have to run a whole _galaxy_ , after all.” Obi-Wan didn’t care that the droid wouldn’t appreciate his sarcasm.

“I thought exactly the same thing, sir, but he won’t delegate the task to anyone else. You must be a very special guest.”

Obi-Wan laughed dryly and shook his head. “Something like that,” he murmured; then louder, with a slight tensing in his gut: “Where can I find him, then?”

“At this time, he’s normally practising, sir. Once you are finished, I can show you.”

~ 

Obi-Wan stood silently in the doorway, the electric thrum of a lightsabre pulsating dully in his ears and tingling across his skin like nervous static. At every jarring note, he remembered, forced back to a time distant with more than just age and experience, becoming lost in the twisted paths of recollection. The cool inner depths of the Jedi Temple, rush mat beneath bare feet, a soft, sombre voice counting slowly as he cut and parried against an enemy that wasn’t there, attack patterns that felt clumsy and awkward and not something that he would remember when it really mattered. A red, translucent sheen and an anger he had never felt before simmering behind his eyes, his lightsabre heavy and sweat-slick in his grip, his master dying and a nightmare face, crimson and black with a slash of teeth, preventing Obi-Wan from reaching him, battle roaring heavily in his ears, blue clashing with red so brightly that it hurt his eyes.

Obi-Wan’s lips twitched slightly, the expression devoid of any humour, wresting his thoughts away from the path they were following. It wasn’t a repression of memory, something Obi-Wan knew could only cause more harm than good, but a conscious decision and application of knowledge: the Sith would see any such behaviour as a weakness and try to exploit it. It did not do to dwell on memories, especially ones that meant the most to him, good or bad, vague or vivid. He could not do it - _should_ not - not here, not with the smell of Anakin’s sweat lingering heavily on the outskirts of his senses. It seemed to Obi-Wan that he always needed a full hand when dealing with Anakin, and there was no logical reason to willingly surrender the advantage before they had even begun.

Taking a steadying breath, he folded his arms across his chest and stepped out, past the partition which had been shielding him from the room proper and its only inhabitant. Anakin gracefully finished a familiar manoeuvre, lightsabre burning through the air and casting flickering shadows on the wall, before stopping so entirely still that it was almost unbelievable that he had been in motion less than a second ago, his back to Obi-Wan and weapon still glowing in his hand.

With an uncomfortable certainty, Obi-Wan thought that the Sith had been aware of his presence the entire time.

“You taught me that one,” Anakin said, and there was no inflection in his voice to suggest that he had been practising exacting drills for over an hour, the only evidence of the physical exertion the beads of sweat that made his bare back glisten in the light.

“I’m glad to see that you’ve remembered your training,” Obi-Wan said, pleasantly. “Did you use it against the younglings when you killed them?”

The words fell dead between them.

On occasion, Obi-Wan considered that the gratification brought about by his quirky comments wasn’t really worth the amount of trouble his mouth tended to get him into.

Anakin turned, a small smile hanging dangerously from his lips and his lightsabre, still drawn, angled down towards his bare feet. “Probably, yes. Did you want something?”

Obi-Wan swallowed and shifted his weight. “The droid who served me breakfast asked me what I was going to do today. I was wondering what the limitations of my imprisonment here were.”

Anakin deactivated his lightsabre and clipped it to his belt, watching Obi-Wan with a speculative consideration for a moment. Then he padded softly off the thick rush mat of the practice area and to the side, where he immersed his hands in a large, stone basin shot through with quartz before bending over it and splashing the water up into his face. Standing back up, he rubbed at his face with a towel, wiping away the beads of sweat and water from his chest as an after thought, then dropped the towel into a bin. His hair curled softly at his temples, stuck to his skin with moisture, and Obi-Wan was reminded forcefully of his padawan as Anakin walked slowly towards him, stopping just before Obi-Wan could justify taking a step backwards.

“More specifically?”

Obi-Wan hesitated. “I was wondering whether I would be able to go outside.”

Anakin was silent for a long moment, his eyes narrowed and intense in their scrutiny.

“Practise with me,” he finally said, softly.

Obi-Wan recoiled slightly. “What?”

“Practise with me. Right now.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes slid out of focus for a moment, Anakin becoming a blur of colour that still held far too much meaning and he couldn’t possibly have just asked him that, he couldn’t have.

“I haven’t used a lightsabre in five years, Anakin.”

The Emperor smirked. “Are you afraid?”

“The Jedi don’t feel fear.” And yet his heart was thumping painfully in his throat, his head filled with a terrible lightness, and Obi-Wan wondered whether he was lying to himself.

“Of course they don’t. So practice with me.”

Obi-Wan took a step backwards, widening the space between them as if it would make the slightest difference. “It is a matter of reason, Anakin. I refuse to fight you because it will not end well - it could never end well. It is not wise and frankly I am surprised you do not see that.”

The Sith tilted his head to one side slightly, regarding him with a stillness which made him want to squirm, his smile crooked with a strange bitter humour.

“You are wrong, old man, because I never said I wanted to _fight_ with you. I merely said practise.” He shut his eyes, and when he opened them again, they were hot with a curiously righteous anger. “But if your Jedi philosophies cannot allow you to distinguish between the two, then perhaps it would be better if I did not give you a lightsabre.”

Obi-Wan was wrong-footed, unsure exactly how things had been turned around and, more specifically, how he was meant to react to them. He watched as Anakin turned away, his back rigid with anger, and wondered whether he was being intentionally manipulated. And, if he was, whether it mattered or not. Because, despite his misgivings, he couldn’t help think that if Anakin wanted to kill him, he would have done so by now, and the very worst occurrence of a duel would be that things became more strained between them (which hardly seemed possible, anyway) with the very best being that he hurt the Sith enough to escape with his son back into the oblivion of space. It certainly wouldn’t hurt his chances of seeing Luke more often if he was in Anakin’s good graces, either.

He took a hesitant step forward.

“Alright, then.”

Anakin paused, but didn’t turn around.

“I’ll practise with you. But, if it becomes too much, if _I_ think it becomes too much, we stop. Immediately. Do you understand?”

Anakin moved to the back of the room and picked up something from amongst the folds of his discarded clothes. Turning, he threw it in Obi-Wan’s direction and the Jedi caught it deftly, as if it hadn’t been five years since he had handled one although the lightsabre still felt slightly foreign in his grip. Looking down at it, he was surprised to see it was his own weapon, and something like unease curled in his stomach.

Anakin was smiling.

“Do you need a change of clothes?”

Obi-Wan shook his head, clamping down on the urge to pluck at the sleeve of the soft cloth of the still unfamiliar tunic. “It will make no difference unless you are offering my Jedi robes back to me, and even those I doubt would have an effect on my overall performance. These will suffice.”

“Very well.” Anakin nodded and moved to the rush mat and turned to look at him expectantly.

Obi-Wan stood still for a moment, knowing that he could still back out, it wasn’t too late. As soon as he stepped onto that mat, it would be, and he would have no choice but to see his decision through to its conclusion. He hesitated a moment longer, then laughed softly and slipped off his sandals, mentally berating himself for being so melodramatic. Taking a steadying breath, he took a step forward, then another and another, until he was standing in front of Anakin, the mat cool and familiar beneath his feet.

Anakin smiled and bowed shortly, and Obi-Wan returned the gesture, his fingers curling apprehensively around the comforting grip of his lightsabre, the metal warming beneath his fingers. With a nod towards each other, they both activated their weapons simultaneously, heat pulsating off the blade Obi-Wan held and smoothing over his cheek in a warm caress of air.

They started gently, ‘sabres moving through the drills they had practised together for years, footwork strangely like a dance, one moving in, one foot out, and together. Repeated. Obi-Wan let out a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding, relieved, allowing some of the tension to bleed out of his shoulders into his parries. Despite the length of time that had transpired since he had used the weapon, old techniques and movements he had thought long forgotten came back to him as their blades flashed against each other, knowing naturally how to react to a certain thrust, how to compliment that particular stance, when to go on the offensive, how to read the slight shift of muscles in Anakin’s shoulders and be prepared for the strike when it came. It occurred to him that, although he was admittedly rusty with lack of practise, he would probably never lose the ability to wield a lightsabre, the talent as much a part of him now as if he had been born with it. A warmth formed in his stomach; a knowledge that the Jedi teaching had worked, that it had not been all in vain, that it was still with him even now.

Anakin’s eyes were shining, and he smiled slightly. “I’m glad to see that age has not dulled you, Obi-Wan.”

And, in the moment, he forgot himself and nothing had changed. “Less of the cheek, Anakin. I’ll have you know that I’m not that old.”

As soon as the words had left his lips, Obi-Wan took a step back, lowering his blade, his mouth suddenly dry. Anakin raised an eyebrow and deactivated his own lightsabre. There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment in which Obi-Wan found it immensely difficult to look the other man in the face. Then Anakin turned and padded softly to the side.

“Thirsty?”

It was the needed distraction, and Obi-Wan accepted the flask of ice-cold water handed to him, opening it and swallowing a couple of mouthfuls down. He shivered once at the combination of liquid cold moving down into his stomach and the cool air drying the sweat-dampened cloth at his chest and back, under his arms, his temples damp with his exertions. He needed to get moving again, and he was surprised that he wanted to, his previous reluctance replaced by the burn of exercise and the joy of remembering an ability that he had assumed lost forever.

“Again?” Anakin asked, watching him.

Obi-Wan nodded, moving out into the centre of the mat.

Anakin replaced his own flask of water against the wall, then paused, unclipping his lightsabre from his belt. For a moment, he didn’t move, then he suddenly vaulted backwards, flipping in the air and activating his weapon in a searing burst of red, and Obi-Wan took a startled step backwards, fumbling for his own lightsabre and only activating it just in time to parry the blow aimed for his head. And then he was being forced backwards, Anakin’s attack of a ferocity that was out of place in a practice room, and it was only through sheer instinct that Obi-Wan managed to keep on blocking the blows levelled towards him, the lightsabres clashing with bright bursts of energy that made the air smell of burnt ozone. With adrenaline beating through his veins, he planted his feet and forced backwards, meeting Anakin’s overhead blow and holding steady, the muscles in his arms vibrating with the pressure of doing so. Anakin was smiling ruthlessly, his eyes reflecting the glow of his weapon, and he lashed out with a kick to the stomach, sending Obi-Wan stumbling backwards with a pained exhalation of breath.

Obi-Wan corrected his stance, his lightsabre ready to defend himself. “I thought we weren’t fighting?” he asked, slightly breathlessly.

Anakin stood still, not pushing his advantage, his lips curled into a challenge. “We’re not. This is what I consider practice. We can stop if you like, or go back to the warm up that we were doing before, but I thought you might appreciate a chance to really live again after your time on Tatooine.”

Obi-Wan considered him for a moment, his heart still beating with an excitement he hadn’t felt in years, then nodded. “Alright.” He saw no reason to act as old as Anakin obviously thought he was.

He moved forward and they circled warily, ‘sabres thrumming with energy and bare feet soft on the rush floor, eyes locked, then they moved, almost simultaneously, rushing together with an electric pulse of solid light against solid light. Their weapons weaved between them, and Obi-Wan met Anakin’s force with as much of his own, allowing himself to enjoy the physical exertion as he threw himself into it, cutting upwards with his blade, stepping to the right, one, two, then back, turning full circle to increase his blow’s strength, and then parrying at the last moment. He turned again, his eyes aching with the bright flashes burnt into his retinas, red and blue sparks dancing in his vision as he raised his weapon, and Anakin was doing exactly the same at the same time, reaching out behind him to grab Obi-Wan’s free arm and using their joint momentum to force themselves round again. Seeing an opening, Obi-Wan pressed the advantage, holding Anakin’s blade down with a grim determination before being pushed off with a grunt of exertion.

They moved again, coming together, their lightsabres flashing sticks of brilliance as they burned out unreadable patterns in the air, blue interspersed with red and vice versa, their blades not actually touching as they complimented each other at every hot, thrumming sweep. Something suddenly struck Obi-Wan, an iron band clenching round his chest, a disconcerting sense of déjà vu, and he pulled away slightly with a frown on his face, moving his blade up instinctively to block Anakin’s and becoming locked in a twisted embrace, unable to force the Sith back and unwilling to acquiesce himself. They both pushed against each other, neither holding the advantage, faces illuminated ethereally by their weapons, sweat-sheened and tight with the effort. Obi-Wan felt the build-up in the Force as a frisson of coolness down his neck, and he turned away slightly, summoning up his own reserves and meeting Anakin’s outstretched hand with his own, invisible power like a solid blockade between them as he pushed hard, trying to force the other backward, fingers almost touching and pressure building up inside his head.

It was as they were both thrown backwards to opposite ends of the mat by the Force explosion that realisation hit, a horrible sensation that crawled up his spine and squeezed around his throat, making him feel inexplicably dirty.

He had lived through this duel before, had fought through it to the death and had finally won, and if the notion hadn’t been so ridiculous then he would have recognised Anakin’s engagements - would have remembered them - immediately. His dreams had been haunted by them almost every night of the first month he had spent on Tatooine.

He didn’t use the Force to get him back to his feet, didn’t charge back to where Anakin would have fallen, didn’t react when he heard Anakin activate his lightsabre once more. He refused to be a part of this cruel farce a moment longer. He sat up stiffly, eyes closed, methodically going through the actions of reigning in his emotions, and when he opened them again, Anakin was standing above him. 

“Do you think I am blind?” he asked, simply. The other man didn’t reply and Obi-Wan sighed, shaking his head. “I will not play this game of yours any longer, Anakin.”

He pushed himself slowly to his feet.

“It is not a game.” Anakin was staring at him still, an unreadable expression on his face as he deactivated his lightsabre, his voice soft.

“No?” Obi-Wan asked, slightly incredulous. “Then what is it, I’m interested to know? Because I personally get no pleasure from the idea of re-enacting Mustafar, and I would have thought that that was at least one principle that we shared.”

He stopped. His head was still reeling with incomprehension, his breathing accelerated, the sick feeling in his stomach solidifying slightly into nausea. He didn’t think he would ever understand his former Padawan, wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to so much as want to, either.

His hand was trembling slightly as he dropped his life-less weapon onto the mat, watching momentarily as it rolled gently, then stilled. Forcing his head back up, he focused on the door and the effort it would take to get there, his reserves of strength sapped by the rigorous exercise and the terrible understanding that muddied his mind, the muscles in his legs spasming as he took a step forward, then another. He didn’t look at Anakin as he moved, couldn’t face that hot stare.

He was half-way across the room when the sound of a lightsabre activating seared across his hearing, and he spun, wide-eyed as he watched the Sith stalk towards him, a feral quality to his expression. Without giving him time enough to react, Anakin was upon him, fingers gripping cruelly around his throat and forcing him down, his red blade flashing dangerously close to Obi-Wan’s face. Obi-Wan reached out a hand and wrapped it around the weapon’s handle, pressing it backwards with all his might, his face tense with the effort and his other hand going to the grip about his throat which was steadily choking him. This time around, however, Anakin’s fingers were flesh, not biting metal, and he dug his nails into them, attempting to twist them off of him so he could breathe. This time around, it was Anakin who held the weapon, not him.

In the back of his mind, Obi-Wan knew he had been manipulated into yet another position he had already been in once before, the burning heat against his face from the lightsabre and Anakin’s expression holding a terrible resonance of a smouldering landscape of glowing lava and a deep, consuming pain. Straining against Anakin’s hold, his mind groped for how he had freed himself from the position five years ago, and he attempted to get a knee up to kick the other man in the back. Anakin, it seemed however, was prepared for the countermove, and had shifted his weight across Obi-Wan’s legs to prevent such an easy escape, leaving the Jedi impotent in his grasp.

Anakin’s breath was hot against his cheek, his eyes reflecting the gleam of his lightsabre and his face thrown into a sharp relief of shifting shadows. His eyes were focused on Obi-Wan’s, and he smiled, a white flash of slick enamel. He pushed slightly harder with the weapon, angling it down towards Obi-Wan’s throat and sending sharp spikes of pain up the Jedi’s wrist as his hand was bent backwards with an inexorable viciousness, the blade’s heat almost unbearable on his skin.

Obi-Wan thought he was going to die. Anakin had waited patiently for the opportunity to exercise this perfect vengeance, flaunting the knowledge that, after everything, he had been the better fighter in the end, the padawan becoming the master at last. And that was all that mattered, really. It would be as if Mustafar had never happened and, in a twisted way, it held a dreadful, undeniable logic. He would never be able to rescue Luke now, and it was all his fault.

Anakin’s thumb traced over one of the fingers Obi-Wan had wrapped tightly around the handle of the lightsabre, and he was jerked back to the present and the reality of the other man standing over him, their bodies flush against each other, Anakin’s grip hot and tight around his throat. The Sith was still smiling as he leant closer to Obi-Wan, his breath warm as it drifted over his cheek in a slightly erratic rhythm, and it wasn’t an animalistic baring of teeth but a more gentle expression, at odds with the position they were entangled in.

With a displacement of burnt, electric air, the blade hot against his cheek vanished, deactivated, leaving a red, ghostly imprint where it had once been.

There was a heavy silence.

Obi-Wan blinked, his mouth open in a half-formed question, and could only make a small sound of shock when Anakin leant in closer and touched his hot, dry lips to his. The touch was soft, warm flesh stroking gently over warm flesh, Anakin’s tongue flickering to the corner of Obi-Wan’s mouth and sliding slick-smooth across, smearing his bottom lip ever so slightly out of place and pushing forward to press against his teeth. The hand around his throat was still tight, robbing him of breath, but it loosened slightly as Anakin dragged a nail across the beat of Obi-Wan’s pulse, pressing hard and then smoothing over the hurt with the pad of his finger when Obi-Wan tensed in his grip.

Obi-Wan was light-headed with lack of oxygen, dizziness consuming him in a whirl of red and blue sensation, his breathing harsh and ragged in his ears as he struggled against the hands holding him. Anakin pushed fully against him, his bare chest, stomach, thighs hard where they pressed into him with a sweat-damp heat. He felt as if he were suffocating, drowning in the man’s proximity, Anakin’s mouth open and pressed fully to his, hot tongue curling around his sensibilities and forcefully suppressing them.

Obi-Wan jerked backwards, upwards, bucking against him, fingers scrabbling at the hands gripping him, pushing away from the Sith with enough desperation to break the kiss. Anakin’s hand tightened around his throat as he leant back on his heels, his eyes alight with an intensity that made Obi-Wan flinch slightly as their gazes connected.

“Stop,” he breathed. “This is wrong.”

Anakin’s expression tensed and, for a moment, Obi-Wan thought that he would force the issue, renew his grip and take whatever he wanted from him, press him into the mat ferociously and ignore Obi-Wan’s will in the matter. The Sith’s fingers tightened on his wrist hard enough to make his veins pound with trapped blood, bending his hand back even further until Obi-Wan’s lips were drawn together in a thin line of pain, his eyes burning.

And then Anakin let go.

Obi-Wan fell to the mat and rolled to his side, gasping in mouthfuls of air, the iron tang of blood diffusing across his taste buds. He watched through bleary vision as Anakin stalked to the far wall and leant against it, his hands balled into fists at his side, his back a rigid line of anger.

“Get out,” he said, quietly.

Obi-Wan pushed himself up off the floor with trembling limbs. He hesitated, watching the other man for a moment as something twisted deep within his stomach, then turned to go, walking painfully across the room until he reached the door.

Nothing could be done now. Choices had been made, and they dragged heavily at his mind. Whatever Anakin wanted with him, whatever he saw in him, Obi-Wan did not feel the same way, _could_ not - not after what had come to pass between them. Too much blood separated them, an ocean of crimson, blood spilt by Anakin’s hand, and Anakin was a Sith after all and nothing could change that.

Obi-Wan was here for Luke. The boy was the only weight that tilted the scales in the favour of a life of incarceration rather than a reckless death, and surely Anakin could see that? Anakin was a Sith - _Darth Vader -_ not his old Padawan. There was nothing between them now and there could never be again.

Even so, as he stumbled back to his quarters, two words echoed in Obi-Wan’s mind. And it was with a dreadful certainty that Obi-Wan knew that they had been filled with hurt, not anger.

“ _Get out._ ”

The knowledge ached.


	6. Chapter 6

Obi-Wan couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t drag his thoughts together into some semblance of peace. Already he could feel the stiffness pooling in his muscles from the practice room that morning, his right shoulder tingling with an uncertain numbness and his back aching slightly in protest of his cross-legged position. He knew that he would be a solid throb come the following day. But that wasn’t the problem; that wasn’t the reason that he was failing so abysmally at meditating because Force knew that he had been in worse physical states than this before.

He shifted slightly, winced as something in his neck twinged, and shut his eyes again. But there was no warm comfort to sink into, no vast intelligence to surrender himself to, nothing but Anakin. Anakin’s lips, Anakin’s hands, Anakin’s pain, Anakin’s fury.

Obi-Wan tore himself away from the Sith’s touch and opened his eyes, his nails biting into his palms with frustration. He could overcome this. He had to.

Since that morning, he hadn’t stayed still. After he had left the practice rooms, he had returned to his suite but had subsequently left it, dismayed to find that his thoughts had been uncontrollable in the quiet and isolation, and not liking the idea that Anakin would know exactly where he was if he chose to seek him out. He had instead spent the day trying to orientate himself in the vast corridors and wings of the Imperial palace, looking for routes of possible escape and finding nothing but his own curiosity in the beautiful architecture, returning to his rooms only when his guilt of doing nothing productive began to outweigh the pleasant distraction. And now he was here, and the purple light darkening outside the window testified to how long he had been at his fruitless labour, and still the peace of mind he ached for lay outside his grasp.

With a hiss of electric air, the door slid open to his side and Obi-Wan stayed perfectly still, feigning a state of meditation. He had never properly appreciated the simple matter of being able to lock a door before. There was no privacy for him here: it was a privilege no prisoner was granted.

There was a pause from behind him, then: “The Emperor says you are to have a bath.”

The voice was feminine and real, not the drone of a clone or the court drawl of Senator Barbas, and Obi-Wan drew pleasure from the mere sound of it. He levered himself to his feet and turned, then sharply inhaled in shock.

“ _Padmé?_ ”

Obi-Wan stared openly at the woman, horror etched deeply into his face, his eyes tracing the familiar, shadow-dark features he had last seen tinged stiff with the cold blue of death. The word _clone_ was burning like a bitter poison on his tongue. This was an abomination, nothing less. It wasn’t possible. He was aware of the science of it all and he knew the Emperor better than he liked to admit, and even so. Something scrabbled at the pliant softness of his mind, and it bruised with a throbbing ache. He would never have thought Anakin capable of _this_.

The woman looked at him for a long moment across the softly lit space between them, her lips tightening into a thin, crimson line. Then she jerked her head in the negative, shadows sliding down her cheeks. “No. I am not Padmé Amidala,” she said softly, and stepped more fully into the light.

And there was difference - slight, but most certainly there. Cheekbones not quite so high, eyes not quite so bright, smile not quite so real. Obi-Wan’s shoulders relaxed, the thrumming tension in the room dissipating. Even through the distortion of time and pain, he could tell that this was no clone.

“Who are you?” he asked quietly, genuinely intrigued.

“My name is Sabé.” The woman paused, then took a step towards him, her fine, sequined skirts brushing lightly over the floor and her dark eyes on his face. Her full lips were twisted with something that resembled wistful regret. “You have grown old, Obi-Wan. I never thought that you could.”

He saw no need to hide his surprise. “We have met before?”

She laughed, and the sound was strangely melancholic. “A long time ago, now. I was born on Naboo and served as handmaiden to Queen Amidala. You caused quite a stir when you arrived. You and your master.”

At this, tendrils of memory tugged themselves free in Obi-Wan’s mind, slowly wrapping around his awareness. He smiled broadly. “Then it is no wonder I took you for Padmé! You were the Queen’s decoy, were you not? Sabé, yes, I remember. I seem to recall it was your swift thinking that allowed the Queen to capture the Viceroy and guarantee victory for your people.”

The woman bowed her head slightly, her pale cheeks hinted with pink, and a modest smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “You are too kind, Master Jedi.”

“I speak only truth.”

Their eyes met again. It seemed Obi-Wan could not take his eyes off her face, the resemblance to Padmé was so distinct. It was as if a curtain had been drawn back, shedding bright light over the past he had so carefully hidden from sight, and something burned within him. The feeling was almost as strong as it had been upon seeing Anakin again, restored and whole - five years not long enough to scrub the smell of bubbling, blackening flesh from his senses. It was as if the reality of _what had been_ was being offered to him again, warped, different, and yet still a second chance. The image of his padawan restored to him, the likeness of the only one who could have ever hoped to have saved Anakin near at hand, and he some desperate mediator. There was some connection here. There had to be.

Awkwardness filled the space between them, and Obi-Wan was aware that his scrutiny had become too close, too intense. Sabé was watching him, hands awkwardly smoothing at her skirts, delicate eyebrows drawn together in a way which suggested discomfort. He smiled, and shook his head ruefully.

“I apologise. I’m afraid my spell on Tatooine has done rather primitive things to my manners. I’m feeling rather overwhelmed at seeing you here, to tell you the truth of it.” He laughed, a deep sound of wonder. “Not that it is a bad thing, of course.” He hesitated, then gestured behind him into the room. “I would offer you a drink, but I think it would perhaps be safer if we didn’t indulge ourselves. I am of the opinion that I am not numbered amongst the most popular guests in the palace.”

Sabé’s expression was sincerely straight. “Guest, no. But I hear you are a most favoured prisoner. The palace has its own set of subterranean cells, after all, and I have yet to hear of any prisoner fearing the contents of his drink decanter down there.”

Obi-Wan bowed shallowly, his grin spontaneous and real. “It seems I must count my blessings then.”

Her lips quirked upwards. “It seems prudent, does it not?” She paused, and her hands flicker-pressed nervously together. “Will you count among them a bath, Master Jedi?”

Sabé’s first comment filtered back to him, and suddenly her badly hidden anxiety - at least to a Jedi’s eyes - made sense. She was not merely here to socialise with an acquaintance she met on a couple of occasions years ago, and perhaps spoke to only once, after all.

“I wouldn’t want to cause any difficulty. I am quite content with the ‘fresher.”

Which was true, after all. The climate on Tatooine made bathing in actual water an impossibility - except to the very rich. He hadn’t bathed in the strictest sense of the word for more than five years.

Her lips pressed together momentarily. “It would be no trouble.”

A direct order then.

“Well, then,” he smiled. “I would be absolutely delighted to have a bath. Tell me, will there be bubbles?”

~

In the moment of blissful weakness as Obi-Wan sank down into the hot, soapy water, he could have thanked Anakin for bringing him back to Coruscant. The water was as a warm embrace shining over his skin and enveloping his body in its entirety, the heat soaking into his muscles until there was no more room for the throbbing ache that had filled them so mercilessly before. He fancied it was as if he was bathing in bacta fluid, the revitalising effect was so great, and he shut his eyes, leaning his head back against the cool tiled side of the sunken bath, allowing the feeling to consume him.

The sound of soft feet careful against tile padded into his awareness, and he cracked open an eye, watching silently as Sabé’s slender form bent and placed carefully folded white towels to the side, her skirts rustling as she turned to him, a cloth bundle in her hands. Obi-Wan wondered whether times had changed over the long days he had spent in the desert, or whether his imposed isolation had had an effect on his modesty. He could never before remember feeling quite so bare under such a frank gaze.

She knelt by his head, and unwrapped the bundle, setting out a creamy bar of soap, two jars, one containing some brilliant green gel, the other dull orange, a cloth and a razor. As the last object was placed on the tile, Obi-Wan’s eyes opened fully, and he sat up slightly, a protest on his lips. Sabé smiled calmly and shook her head, effectively silencing him.

“I believe his words were: ‘I am not the council. He has no need to impress his great age and wisdom upon me with that ridiculous growth.’ ”

Obi-Wan frowned. “How very candid of him.”

“I am sorry.”

He sighed, then shook his head, his lips twitching into a rueful smile. “There is no need to be, Sabé. It will grow back given time.”

She handed him the bar of soap, watching silently as he comprehensively cleaned himself, her eyes sad.

“Padmé,” she said, finally.

He paused, then turned to the woman. “What about her?”

“No,” she shook her head. “ _Padmé._ It’s what the Emperor calls me. You must get into the same habit. Everyone else does. It’s my official title at court.” She hesitated, then raised her chin slightly. “I didn’t want you to know. I’m sorry. I should have introduced myself as Padmé from the very beginning. It’s just - I so very much wanted you to remember me.”

Obi-Wan carefully placed the soap on the side, absorbing the information in silence, his forehead creased in thought. Regret of a lifetime tugged deep in his stomach. Finally, he spoke.

“I fear Anakin may be more than slightly mad.” He paused. “He has been alone for too long.”

Sabé picked up the jar of green gel, slowly unscrewing it, apparently content that his words had exonerated her of any guilt. “Is that why he brought you here?” she asked, her voice soft and curious.

The question was innocently blunt, and yet it scraped across Obi-Wan’s nerve endings like sharpened durasteel.

“Perhaps.”

He was prepared to say no more.

Sabé nodded and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, cold against his heated skin. “Lay back. I need to wash your hair.”

His scalp tingled at the application of the green gel, her fingers methodical and beautiful as they worked through his hair, massaging with just the right amount of pressure, and he was hard put not to groan in elicited pleasure. When he arose finally, dripping, from the water after ridding his hair of the slick gel, Sabé had positioned herself behind him, towel on her lap, opening the orange jar and scooping out a generous quantity. She gestured, and - with the briefest reluctance - he leant back against her, positioning his head on the warm, scented towel and shutting his eyes as she methodically slicked the cool gel over his jaw.

“Why are you here?” he murmured quietly, so as not to interrupt her fingers.

There was a scrape of metal against tile, and then her hands tilted his head slightly, her fingertips pressing gently into his flesh to keep him steady, the edge of the razor a line of coldness against his throat.

“The Emperor occasionally used to visit Naboo, gifting it with prosperous trade alliances and overseeing the building of the temple that holds Padmé Amidala’s body himself.” Her voice was soft. “I served him at the palace once, and he asked me to return to Coruscant with him. To hold his wife’s memory for him, he said.” She paused, and the razor scraped over his jaw, leaving the strip of skin cold and tingling in its wake. “He hasn’t been back to Naboo since.”

Obi-Wan held still as the razor returned, sliding up past his ear in a swift glide at the manipulation of competent fingers.

“And court life here. It is good to you?”

She was smiling now - he could hear it in her voice. “It could be worse. The Emperor is not a demanding master. And I have friends here. I think you’ve met Senator Barbas?”

He frowned slightly, clamping down on the urge to jerk away and ask her a question, aware of the smooth progress of the sharp blade still working over his jaw. He had no desire to feel it slice into his flesh.

“You like him?” he asked lightly, his mouth hardly moving.

She laughed, and tilted his head back further, working slowly and carefully over his upper lip. “He does seem to create that sort of response in most people when they first meet him. But forgive him his abrupt manner. He has worked closer to the Emperor for longer than anyone else, and it is bound to have an effect on a body.”

“Yes, I can imagine.” Obi-Wan could not prevent the corners of his lips curling upwards slightly, pulling freshly shaved skin taut. “At the very least, he seems to have absorbed Anakin’s dislike of me.”

Sabé laughed again as her fingers lingered intimately over his neck, stroking his newly sensitised skin and searching out any area she might have missed. “How very wrong you are, Master Jedi,” she said, and her amusement was threaded through her words. “Barbas admires you very much; he always has. He still believed that you would come back after all others had long lost hope.” She paused. “But perhaps I have said too much. He will not be grateful to me for it.”

She reached down past him into the bath, and he opened his eyes, watching as warm water dribbled over his face from her cupped hands. Then she patted at his bare skin with a soft towel, drying it and wiping away all residues of stickiness from the orange gel. She held his eyes and nodded, and he raised his head from her lap and sat up.

“But I had never met Barbas before being captured,” he said, carefully. “Why should he feel in such a way?”

Sabé stood up and looked at him consideringly for a long moment, her hands still and calm at her sides. “Because he has heard the stories, Obi-Wan,” she finally said, softly. “As we all have.” She reached out a hand and gently brushed it against his bare cheek. “The Emperor was right,” she conceded with a small smile. “You don’t look so old.”

And, with that, she turned and left, the decorative hem of her robes making a soft rustling as it brushed against the bathroom floor.

She was allowing him privacy. Obi-Wan took it as the cue that his bath was over.

~

That evening, he was served dinner alone in his room. As he was the following evening, and the evening after that. The Emperor was still angry, it seemed.

Days of nothingness blurred into each other in a way which they had never seemed to do on Tatooine. He was left entirely alone, with no contact with the outside world and no way of seeing Luke. Meditation still held none of the satisfaction it once had; wandering around the palace drew more attention than he was comfortable with, and he had no desire to enter the practice rooms again because the walls would only echo of what had transpired between Anakin and himself. Despair began to eat away at him, and the hour or so he spent with Sabé was the only saving grace in his routine; talking about the safe, meaningless day-to-day business of the palace held little interest for him, and yet her bright eyes and laughter soothed him in ways he couldn’t quite fathom.

He had had five shaves before he saw Anakin again.

He had just returned from the bathrooms, fresh smelling, his face bare and tingling from the orange gel. He palmed open the door to his quarters and barely had time to register the man standing in the centre of the room before the Sith’s eyes flickered upwards and he was pinned under his gaze. Obi-Wan hesitated in the doorway for a moment, muscles tensing subconsciously beneath the material of his new tunic, then mentally pressed himself over the threshold.

He nodded. “Anakin.”

Anakin just continued to stare at him, eyes slightly narrowed, and Obi-Wan found himself at a loss for what to do, standing awkwardly on the carpeted floor, unable to advance or retreat. Then the other man smirked slightly, and finally spoke.

“You look like you did when I first met you.”

Obi-Wan shook his head, tiredly. “I am an old man, now. You are remembering falsely.”

Anakin shook his head. “Not so. I am pleased by the difference.”

“I am not.”

“And yet I am Emperor and I am the one who has to look upon you. It will be my decision to keep you barefaced, then. You have been hiding your emotions behind that beard for too long.”

Anakin was still smirking, and Obi-Wan thought it possible that he preferred the man in a bad mood. This teasing mockery was too much like the old Anakin for his comfort, and yet the old Anakin would not have disregarded Obi-Wan’s feelings in the matter, would not have sheared him of a life-worn defence and stood back to admire his handiwork as if weighing up a mended droid.

Anakin strode past him.

“Come,” he said.

And Obi-Wan did. He had little choice in the matter, after all.

~

Coruscant at night was like Coruscant at day but with your hands pressed firmly over your ears. The city world at night was slightly muted; still loud with traffic and still bright with light pollution, but it didn’t overwhelm the uninitiated like the day hours did. And Obi-Wan - a man who had once spent three days and three nights under constant bombardment in a trench in the Calagii system during the Clone Wars - counted himself firmly among that number now after five years spent on a deserted rock with silence as his only company. It was a sad turnaround, he thought to himself.

But, after following Anakin out of the palace and into the initial broach of the Coruscant atmosphere, they had entered the gardens proper and had been engulfed by complete and utter stillness. Obi-Wan had almost drowned in the lack of noise. It seemed that Anakin had employed the same shield technology that the Jedi Temple had once used to ensure that its sacred gardens remained sacred, and a wave of bittersweet nostalgia washed over him.

He walked by Anakin’s side, half a step behind, allowing the Sith to guide their footsteps as they crunched down the stone paths, winding their way into the centre of the cool, green mass of land. Hedges towered above them, ensuring privacy and casting thick, inky shadow, and it was possible to imagine it was only bright moonlight they were walking in, rather than the constant unhealthy reflection of light off the smog clouds. Obi-Wan’s eyes drank in the sight of it, the beautiful peace causing his breath to sound shallow in his throat, and his heart clenched, almost wholly content in just being there.

Anakin didn’t speak to him, merely angled his footsteps slightly, and Obi-Wan dutifully followed him off the path, the grass soft and wet with dew that glistened in the light, soaking the hem of Obi-Wan’s tunic and making the open soles of his sandals slippery. Anakin reached out a hand, his fingertips idly trailing over the hedge that flanked them, following it as it tracked to the side and cornered sharply, leading further into the heart of the gardens. Obi-Wan thought he heard running water, and paced himself to keep up with the Sith’s longer-legged, robed form.

They rounded a bend and came to a clearing surrounded by trees. Obi-Wan stood still for a moment, noticing for the first time how cold his hands were. Around the clearing and in amongst the foliage of the leafy trees, lanterns were dotted, shining pale golden and scattering long broken shadows in all directions. In the centre of the grass, there was cushions and a rug neatly set with a light supper, the light shining on the dark glass of the wine bottle and catching on the rims of the two crystal glasses. He swallowed against a suddenly dry mouth. This was their destination, then.

If he had known the way back, he would have gone. He was actively considering leaving anyway, finding the idea of spending the night lost in the gardens preferable to _this_ \- whatever _this_ might be - and would have done, if Anakin hadn’t turned to him at that moment, his face shadowed and unreadable.

“Do you like it?” he asked, his voice sounding tight and strange.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, grasping futilely for words. “Anakin. What…” He took a step backwards, away from the ingenuous scene. “What is this? If this… I can’t.”

Anakin’s voice was harder when he said, “You will.” He placed a firm hand on Obi-Wan’s back and steered him resolutely forward.

They sat across from each other, Anakin lounging back against the pillows as he poured wine for them both, his eyes still holding an unsettling glimmer of anger. Obi-Wan sat stiffly, his hands in his lap, quietly murmuring his thanks as the glass was passed to him but not bringing it to his lips to drink from. Anakin determinedly filled a plate with fresh bread, grapes and cheese and set it in front of him, and, once again, thanks drifted out Obi-Wan’s parted lips, but he didn’t touch the food. They sat in a tense silence for a long moment, Anakin watching Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan watching how the trees rustled with the faint breeze behind the other man’s head. He shivered absent-mindedly, the chill seeping through the thin material of his tunic to his flesh.

“You are cold?” Anakin asked, abruptly.

“I am fine.”

The Sith’s eyes narrowed. He stood up and rounded the rug, crouching down behind Obi-Wan who tensed and tried to turn around, but was stilled by the hand on his shoulder. He returned his gaze to the trees and the lanterns, watching through unfocused vision as Anakin’s hands slid down his arms and gripped his cold hands lying limply in his lap. His warm thumbs stroked over Obi-Wan’s wrists, then slipped beneath the material of his tunic, gripping his chilled forearms and leaving handprints of heat. Obi-Wan shivered again, and Anakin’s chest pressed flush against his back, and the inspection became something much more intimate for a long, uncomfortable moment.

Anakin‘s mouth was at his ear. “Things could be so much easier than this, Obi-Wan.” His voice was a soft whisper, his breath drifting lightly across Obi-Wan’s cheek. “Do you not realise that I have offered you the way? A Jedi and Sith bonding. We could rule the galaxy and bring up my son. _Together._ ” He paused, as if waiting for the reply that both of them knew would never come. The whisper was harsher when it came again. “Why do you deny me when you know that I could so easily take?”

His grip hardened for a moment, pressing Obi-Wan back into him with a strength that hinted at a suppressed violence. Then his arms loosened. The Sith raised a single hand to the base of his throat and unclasped his cloak, slipping the fine, dark material from his shoulders and wrapping it around Obi-Wan’s form. He paused, then stood, and shifted back to his side of the rug.

None of the relief Obi-Wan felt showed on his face.

They sat there together in the clearing for another half standard hour or so, neither talking nor touching the food. Anakin finished all the dark red wine by himself, the only liquid going untouched being that in Obi-Wan’s glass. When the Emperor finally stood and offered his hand to Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan hesitated, then took it, allowing himself to be pulled upwards.

He followed Anakin as he led him back to his rooms, silently shrugging the cloak from his shoulders and passing it back to him when they reached the door. He smiled faintly, then turned to retreat back into solitude, stopping as Anakin’s fingers caught at his arm.

“If you ask at the door to the gardens, they will allow you outside, Obi-Wan.” He paused. “But do not abuse my trust. If I want to find you, I do not expect to have to search the gardens for you. You will tell the guard exactly where you will be, and you will keep to your word. Do you understand me?”

Obi-Wan nodded. “Yes,” he said, softly, sincerely. “Thank you.”

Anakin looked at him for a long time, nodded shortly, then turned and left.

~

When Obi-Wan finally drew back the covers of his bed, sleep dragging persistently at his eyes, he frowned slightly at the narrow packet lying innocuously on the mattress, hidden right up against the pillow. He picked it up warily, weighing it in his hands, then slowly unwrapped it.

Obi-Wan’s heartbeat juddered through his teeth, and he swallowed against his suddenly dry mouth.

The lightsabre gleamed in the overhead light, cool and heavy in his nerveless hand.


	7. Chapter 7

The voice was soft, yet urgent, as was the hand on his shoulder.

Obi-Wan blinked his eyes open, awake, the transition from sleep to awareness almost immediate. He frowned and sat up, the covers pooling in soft folds at his waist, looking at Sabé questioningly as she took a step backwards, away from his bed, out of his personal space.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice thick from sleep.

Sabé’s eyes were large and round in the semi-darkness, glittering and worried.

“You’ve been summoned. It’s urgent.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. Something about the Emperor’s son.”

Obi-Wan nodded shortly, pushed the covers back and stood, fumbling for clothes in the gloom. He tugged the tunic on over his head, changing swiftly out of his sleeping trousers and into the cool, thicker cloth of his daywear. His fingers were clumsier than normal, or perhaps it was merely the speed he was working at that made it seem so. He was getting too old for this. _Something about the Emperor’s son._ He tried not to think of the implications.

He turned and nodded to Sabé. She was stood in the doorway, the light from outside touching one side of her face and turning it ethereally golden. Her hair was not as perfect as he was used to seeing, and there was something agitated about her expression: a tightness about the mouth, the eyes. He wondered what the time was, wondered whether she had been up all night or had been roused simply to wake him. His gut clenched.

“Let’s go,” he said.

She nodded, and he followed her out the doorway.

~

He recognised the route to Luke’s rooms, remembered the light fittings, the turns in the corridor, the soft cushion of the carpet beneath his feet. His brain catalogued what he was seeing, and yet it was like he was running on autopilot, separated from his surroundings, unable to focus on anything of consequence. He followed Sabé although it was she that was forced to keep to his pace, his steps a fraction behind hers, pushing her relentlessly forward. He listened to the soft clink of her bangles, tried to guess their weight, how many there were; watched the curious movements of her skirts, tracing the intricate patterns with his eyes, wondered at the material. His mind was blank, and he didn’t mind - preferred to nurture harmless insensibility than allow reality to swamp him.

_Something about the Emperor’s son._

It was Anakin, himself, that smashed his cool, irregular indifference. Anakin’s figure, tall and rigidly straight pacing outside Luke’s quarters, the Force a confusing maelstrom of darkness around him. His face was contorted by anger, his lips pulled back over his teeth in a snarl, and when he turned to watch Obi-Wan’s progress down the corridor, Obi-Wan read fear in his eyes.

Obi-Wan’s heart shuddered in his chest.

In front of him, Sabé stopped and stepped to the side, turning to look at him. Obi-Wan nodded, wanted to do something, say something, that would ease that nervous worry in her expression, and yet he found himself unable to offer even the most basic of comforts. He moved past her, towards Anakin, thinking of Luke. Only Luke.

“What’s happened?” he asked, softly.

He was not prepared for the hatred that he met in Anakin’s gaze. Without answering his question, the Sith gripped him roughly by the shoulder and forced him forwards, opening the door to Luke’s chambers with an impatient brush of his hand against the sensor and pushing him physically into the anteroom. Obi-Wan caught himself as he stumbled into the darkness, hands outstretched to press flat against the cool metal wall in front of him. Rather than pushing away, he stayed where he was, resting his forehead against the smooth surface as Anakin stepped in behind him and the door shut, plunging them into complete blackness.

Anakin’s breathing was ragged, furious. Obi-Wan listened to the exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale for a long moment, completely still, completely silent. The metal beneath his fingers and brow was becoming warm. Finally, he spoke. A careful repetition.

“What’s happened?”

Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale and Obi-Wan swallowed against the rising tension, hostility rank in the air. He didn’t think that Anakin was going to answer him, thought it likely if he pressed and asked again then there would be violence. Yet he _needed_ to know.

Inhale, exhale. Then --

“I am told that, if my son is not taken off the drugs, he will die,” Anakin said, his voice soft with fury.

Obi-Wan breathed in deeply.

“I am _also_ told,” Anakin continued, in that same, terrible voice, “that if I _do_ take my son off the drugs and he responds as he did before then he will die anyway.” He paused, then laughed, a harsh, unnatural sound. “This is the collective wisdom of the best healers in the galaxy.”

Obi-Wan shut his eyes and for a moment he saw Padmé’s body, pale and stretched out before him, hair glossy and curled by her dead cheeks.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

He felt rather than saw Anakin shift behind him, the displacement of air cool on the nape of his neck and the rustle of dark robes heavy in his ears. The Sith laughed, cold and bitter, and Obi-Wan felt the distance in the confined space warp and stretch between them. For a moment, he was glad he couldn’t see.

“I would ask you to give me back the time you have stolen from me,” Anakin said, venomously soft. “I would ask that you make it so my son doesn’t start _screaming_ when I enter the room.” He paused. “But I know that you can’t do that. I know that the great General Kenobi is only a man, whatever the stories may say. Impotent and old and dried up,” he spat the words, bitterly.

Obi-Wan was silent, completely still. This was the abuse he had expected from the beginning, had readied himself for. But it still hurt - and for all the wrong reasons.

“Yet you may be the only one to help my son,” Anakin said - admitted - and Obi-Wan finally understood the reason for his anger. The Emperor was not used to being helpless. “If they take him off the drugs and he sees you by his bedside, it has been suggested that he will calm down. If you reassure him when he wakes, tell him he is safe, cared for, then he may settle enough to start healing again.”

Obi-Wan nodded his understanding, forgetting momentarily that the Sith could not see him. He thought of Owen and Beru Lars, wondered if Anakin had left them living when he took back his son and doubted it. Wondered if their bodies had dried up, uncared for, unburied, in the Tatooine desert. He thought of Anakin’s decision to keep Luke for his apprentice, to train him in the dark side, allowing him no choice in the corruption of his soul.

“I will do as you ask,” he said, and wondered at the lies he would have to tell. Considered whether - if Luke knew the truth and was old enough to understand - he would thank Obi-Wan for it.

The door slid open in front of him, and he blinked in the dim, golden light.

“Good,” Anakin breathed, and his hand was tight on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, pressing him resolutely forwards.

The room was hot, the air close and the very walls seemed to sweat. The thick drapes were closed and the lights muted, scattering sallow shadows into the corners. Luke lay dwarfed on the huge bed, face pale and sweat-sheened, a strange, quiet keening coming from deep within his throat. By his side stood a Rodian, black, orb-like eyes sombre, unblinking, and long, green fingers tracing carefully over Luke’s forehead, dragging back sticky, too-long strands of hair.

Obi-Wan stopped and stared, fortifying himself against the wave of reeling dizziness that emanated from the small boy and threatened to overwhelm his own senses. Carefully, he focused on the force-bond he had forged, one-sided, on that last, fateful trip to Tatooine and built up a barrier around it, protecting himself from Luke’s involuntary mind projections. It wasn’t enough - his steps were still unsteady when Anakin pushed him forward once more - but it would do.

Anakin nodded towards the Rodian. “Take him off the drugs,” he said.

The Rodian hesitated, turned that penetrating black gaze on Obi-Wan for a moment, then nodded. His long, brittle fingers spidered down Luke’s side, gently pulling out one small, lax arm from beneath the covers. He turned it, baring the wrist and Obi-Wan frowned slightly at the small device fitted to the fragile, pale skin there. Then carefully, oh so carefully, the Rodian clicked something on the device and smoothly drew it off, and Obi-Wan watched as two glittering needles disappeared back into their sheaths, leaving two neat holes in Luke’s flesh. Crimson blood welled up, and the Rodian shook his head and hummed, deftly wrapping transparent gauze around the broken skin. Then he took a step away from the bed, turned to Anakin, and nodded deferentially. It was done.

Anakin gestured towards the door. “I will call you if you are needed further.”

The Rodian gathered his healer’s case and looked up, his expressionless eyes lingering on Obi-Wan’s face again - a second’s worth of consideration - then moved to walk softly past them, exiting the room without a word.

Anakin manoeuvred Obi-Wan around the bed and pushed him into a chair. Obi-Wan shifted forward, resting his forearms on the soft covers of the bed, and looked at Luke closely, feeling more than slightly helpless. He was expected to save this child - who looked more dead than alive - by reassuring him with lies that tugged fiercely at his own conscience? It seemed a hopeless task.

Hesitantly, he reached forward and clasped the hot, clammy skin of Luke’s hand, careful of the damaged wrist wrapped in gauze. The tiny fingers were almost lost in his grasp.

“What do I do?” he asked, quietly.

Anakin was silent for a moment. Then he laughed softly, a bitter sound. “Don’t be a Jedi.”

And Obi-Wan thought he understood what he meant.

They stayed like that for a very long time; Anakin, Luke and him. Anakin behind him, a dangerous presence - felt, if not seen or heard. Luke in front of him, small and silent, an occasional catch in his breathing enough to reassure Obi-Wan he was still living. And Obi-Wan, himself, his back beginning to ache from the hard chair, his eyes unfocused and his mind tired. A shard of dim sun had appeared on the carpet in front of a narrow chink in the curtains, gradually becoming stronger and more defined. Morning had arrived.

Luke coughed and Obi-Wan raised his head, the crease of a frown between his eyebrows, watching carefully. The boy shifted slightly, opened his mouth soundlessly, and his eyelids flickered, once, twice.

Behind him, he heard Anakin move.

“I shall leave you now,” the Sith said, quietly. “I fear I will have a… detrimental effect on my son’s chances of recovery.” He sounded pained. “I will be outside the door.” A pause, and, when he spoke again, his voice was slightly lower, stiffer. “I am trusting you with him, Obi-Wan. Do not fail me.”

Obi-Wan listened as the door slid shut behind him.

He focused on Luke once more, expression serious and his grip on the boy’s hand unpleasantly warm, damp with sweat. Carefully, he picked apart the barrier he had erected in his mind, allowing the awareness of the small life in front of him to travel across through the Force again. There was a slight residue of nausea-inducing dizziness, but it was nothing like it had been, and he smiled slightly, his shoulders relaxing. Slowly, he wrapped Luke in his own calm, stroking encouragingly against his mind and drawing forth that dim spark of sensibility.

Luke stirred again, then tensed and opened red-rimmed eyes. They held a touch of madness and the fingers trapped within Obi-Wan’s hand clawed into fists.

Obi-Wan was already speaking, his voice soft and calm. “Luke. Luke, it’s going to be alright. Everything’s going to be alright. I’m here now. It’s alright.”

The five year old frowned slightly, mouth quirked in an unsure line. He studied Obi-Wan for a long moment, his cheeks flushed red and angry, then his expression smoothed.

“Old Ben?” he asked, his voice dry and cracked.

Obi-Wan nodded. “Yes. It’s me.”

He squeezed Luke’s hand reassuringly, then released it and turned to the bedside table, his fingers steady as he poured clear water into the waiting glass. Carefully, he shifted forward and put a gentle hand beneath Luke’s head, propping him up slightly as he held the glass to dry lips.

“Drink. It will make you feel better. You’ve been very sick.”

Luke swallowed greedily, but his eyes were still wide and curious, focused on Obi-Wan’s face.

“Slowly, slowly,” Obi-Wan said, aware that too much water after a period of dehydration would merely swell the stomach, and Luke would not be able to keep it down. “I think that’s enough.” He pulled the glass back slightly and smiled. “You can have some more in a little while.”

Luke brought a hand up to Obi-Wan’s jaw. He frowned and prodded at it carefully with small fingers. “Where did your beard go?” he asked, his expression serious.

Obi-Wan smiled. “It decided it liked Tatooine more.”

“Oh.” Luke considered this for a moment, then nodded slightly, obviously agreeing with the logic. “So where are we?”

Obi-Wan paused. “We’re on a planet called Coruscant,” he said, carefully. “It’s very big and busy. It’s in the very middle of the galaxy.” He looked down at the bed sheets, smiled without humour, and said, “You’ll have lots of fun here.”

Luke nodded, and yawned. His eyelids drooped. “Will you leave?” he asked, in a small, worried voice.

Obi-Wan reached for his hand again. “No. I’ll be right here.”

Luke smiled sleepily and turned his head into the pillow. His breathing became steady and regular. Asleep.

Obi-Wan sat back in the chair and watched him. His heart burned in his chest.

~

Anakin found him later, hand still gripping the sleeping boy’s, face blank.

“He woke?”

“Yes.”

There was a silence.

“The healer needs to see him.”

Obi-Wan wondered how Anakin couldn’t ask. _What happened? Did he seem alright? What did he say?_ So many questions, and Anakin didn’t ask. Perhaps he’d been wrong, after all.

“Of course.”

He didn’t move.

~

Obi-Wan blinked open his eyes and the room was dark. He sat up and rubbed the crick out of his neck, wondering how long he had been asleep. His grip on Luke’s fingers was loose, and he removed his hand, fumbling for the water on the table beside him and taking a long drink. It refreshed him and he breathed in deeply, allowing the day’s events to seep slowly back to him.

He leant forward and touched the back of his hand to Luke’s forehead, meeting cool, dry skin. He didn’t understand the full extent of the boy’s illness, but the Rodian healer had spent enough time with Luke earlier that afternoon for Obi-Wan to question him more fully on the subject. It seemed that the main problem was mental, rather than physical, and the healer was pleased with Luke’s regained lucidity, saying that the altitude flu that had previously been so close to killing him would now be gone fully in a matter of days. Perhaps even sooner, thought Obi-Wan. It seemed as if the fever had finally broken.

He rubbed at his chin and felt the scrape of new growth. He smiled. Sabé would pretend to be most displeased by his missed bath today, and yet that hint of a smile on her lips would reveal just how serious she was actually being. He thought back to the early hours of the morning and how nervous she had been, and hoped she had since been told the situation in full. He didn’t like to think of her worrying needlessly on his account.

He stood and stretched, thinking to move legs that had been inactive for too long. Turning, he noticed that a pallet had been set up for him against one wall and he paused, tilting his head to one side consideringly. The thought that Anakin must have ordered it done without saying a word to him on the subject made his gut clench with an emotion not unlike shame. He had presumed he would have to plead with the Sith on the subject, beg to be allowed to stay with Luke. It seemed Anakin was willing to do anything for his son, even if that meant trusting him to the man who had caused their estrangement.

He started in surprise as something rapped against the metal of the door, and he frowned slightly, waiting for someone to enter. Nothing happened, and his mouth tightened. He moved towards the sliding panel and hesitantly brushed his fingertips against the sensor set in the wall, taking a wary step backwards as the door slid open. There was no one there. He could see through the anteroom and the corridor was empty.

The corridor was empty.

Obi-Wan swallowed, his blood thumping loudly in his ears.

Was it a trap? The first time Anakin had brought him to Luke’s rooms, he had been most clear that only one man could enter _and_ leave the anteroom, and that was Anakin himself. A little something had died within Obi-Wan with those words, spoken so softly in the pitch black, and he had thought it likely that he would never be able to retrieve Luke and escape. And yet, here, now, both doors were open and Obi-Wan could almost _breathe_ freedom it was so close. His heart juddered in his chest, and he knew he had no choice but to take this chance, trap or no. He might never get another like it and he wouldn’t ever be able to forgive himself.

Turning, he moved swiftly back to the bed and scooped Luke’s limp body up into his arms. The small boy shifted and made some articulate noise before settling down into sleep once more, and Obi-Wan shushed him gently. He thought of the lightsabre, wrapped tightly in cloth and hidden above the curtain rail in his room, and it was with a deep sense of regret that he decided he had to leave it. To return there to retrieve the weapon, he would have to cut across much of the main thoroughfare of the palace, and that was not an option. There were better ways to take, quieter routes which led down to the subterranean levels and to the hangar, and that was where his destination lay.

He hurried softly back to the open doorway, careful of the precious burden he was carrying, and moved through the anteroom into the corridor, looking left then right and, satisfied there was no one in the immediate vicinity, cautiously reached out with the Force to find any trace of guards.

There were none near. Obi-Wan forced himself not to question his good luck - ignored the voice in the back of his mind whispering that this was not normal, not right, not possible - and pressed swiftly onwards. If he considered what he was doing too closely, if he thought of the pallet bed set quietly up for him in Luke’s room, if he remembered Anakin’s face, his expression, his words, he might stop. _I am trusting you with him, Obi-Wan. Do not fail me._ He began to move faster. He had to concentrate on what was important, what Anakin had done, what he planned to do, what he wanted to turn Luke into.

Down lit corridors and through open doorways, allowing the Force to guide him through turnings he did not recognise, and Luke was still sleeping in his arms, expression still and calm. The hangar door was locked, yet a nudge with the Force released the lock with a metallic hiss, and it slid open, air ruffling through Obi-Wan’s hair and cold against his face. He held Luke closer to him and stepped into the gloom, his feet quick on the shining obsidian floor.

Navigating through the darkness and between the idle starships that were visible only as large, humped shapes, he remembered back to the day he had arrived on Coruscant, piecing together what he could remember of the hangar’s layout. He needed a ship which wasn’t going to attract undue attention but one which would get Luke and him safely off of Coruscant. He needed something fast and agile, something which could outmanoeuvre anything sent in pursuit. He shifted Luke’s weight in his arms, his muscles beginning to feel the strain, and moved further into the hangar. He had a particular craft in mind.

She was a shuttle, old enough to be inconspicuous and yet Obi-Wan could remember the make well. A Delta four-six-one. The Jedi had once made great use of them during the clone wars, using their speed and precision to ferry supplies to isolated groups, and he wondered whether it was a sense of nostalgia that made Anakin keep one here amongst the gleaming hulls of a much newer fleet.

Carrying Luke onboard, he deposited him gently in one of the seats. At the movement, the boy stirred and opened his eyes, looking round hazily.

“Old Ben?” he murmured.

Obi-Wan smoothed his hair and smiled. “Yes, I’m here.” He paused. “But I have to go somewhere, Luke. Only for a moment, then I’ll be right back. Can you wait for me?”

Luke nodded groggily, his eyes closing again.

“Good boy,” Obi-Wan said, softly.

He turned and exited the shuttle, striding quickly down the metal ramp. Crossing the hangar floor, he made his way to the side of the huge doors that opened out onto the Coruscant sky, finding the control panel set into the wall. Rapidly, he tapped in a command and stepped back, watching as a sliver of light-polluted night became visible as the doors rumbled slowly open.

He made his way back to the ship, his feet soft on the hard ground. Jogging up the ramp, he closed the hatchway behind him, his fingers light and unreal on the pressure pad. It seemed so entirely impossible that he was here, that this was reality, that it was so _easy_.

There was a slight whimper of noise behind him, and he turned, words of comfort - practiced reassurance for a five year old - on his tongue.

They never got past his lips.

Because Luke wasn’t in the chair he had left him in. Instead, he was in the strong arms of a clone trooper, one large, gloved hand wrapped tightly around his mouth. His eyes were still hazy and unaware, as if caught on the verge of waking, but tears glistened freely on his cheeks. Obi-Wan took a single step forward, mouth open in protest, then stopped, his gaze sliding to the figure sitting rigidly in the chair the clone trooper stood behind.

Anakin’s face was expressionless, but his eyes were dark.

“You have disappointed me, Obi-Wan,” he said, softly.

Obi-Wan hesitated, then swallowed around the bile of disappointment rising in his throat. “I had to try,” he stated quietly, his mouth dry.

Anakin nodded stiffly. “Yes, I suppose you did.”

There was an uncomfortable silence, and Obi-Wan wondered what had gone wrong, where he had slipped, how the Sith had known. He had failed, and he didn’t want to consider too deeply what would happen to him - what would happen to Luke - now.

Slowly, Anakin stood. “You will come with me, and you will not fight. Do you understand?”

Obi-Wan’s eyes flickered back to Luke, and he nodded. He had been well aware of what the consequences would be were he to be caught.

“Good.” Anakin smiled - the first real hint of emotion - and the expression was cruel. “Your punishment is already being prepared.” He stepped past Obi-Wan, his fingers reaching to open the hatchway once more. “It will teach you - and the rest of the galaxy - that the Emperor is not someone to be easily disobeyed.”

He gripped Obi-Wan’s shoulder tightly. “And you will learn.” 


	8. Chapter 8

The force inhibitors were unnaturally cold and tight about his wrists once more and Obi-Wan’s face was smooth and expressionless as a clone trooper pressed him up the ramp into the sleek hull of the Imperial shuttle. Anakin was already seated, staring out the viewing panel into the depths of the hangar, and Obi-Wan stopped, drawn up short by his escort’s gloved hand wrapped tightly about his upper arm. They hovered there awkwardly and in silence, waiting for the Emperor’s acknowledgement, and when the Sith finally looked up and nodded to the clone trooper, motioning carelessly to the seat opposite him, Obi-Wan was compelled forward again with a hand at his elbow and a muttered command in his ear.

He sat down carefully, resting back against the soft leather, his back straight, his neck stiff and his hands clasped and motionless in his lap. The clone trooper took up guard behind him. Anakin cast an appraising look at him, a single impassive sweep of his eyes, then directed his attention out the viewing panel once more. Obi-Wan forced himself to stay calm, to relax.

He met the dark eyes of Senator Barbas from across the luxurious spread of the shuttle’s interior, and the man’s expression was tight and closed, nothing of the unpleasant glimmer of a smile that usually graced his lips. His dark skin was shiny with nervousness and his hands were held stiffly in his lap, and it made Obi-Wan wonder - told him more than he wanted to know. When he turned away, he could still feel the lingering heat of Barbas’ gaze on his skin.

The shuttle was opulent but not large, not made for distance trips into the far-flung corners of the galaxy. They would be flying escorted, of course, and Obi-Wan watched the star fighter pilots through the thick transparent plating as they manoeuvred their ships through the hangar doors and into the muggy sunlight of Coruscant. The fighters were not built for long haul either, and he allowed a fleeting curiosity of their destination to brush across his thoughts, then methodically reigned it in. Whatever his promised punishment was to be, he’d learn of it soon enough, and wild half-guesses would do nothing for his state of mind.

Take-off was smooth, and Obi-Wan didn’t even feel the jolt when they broke the atmosphere. He watched the star fighters flying in formation close to the shuttle’s wing, watched the unmoving blackness of space, the glimmer of distant stars and squinted against the harsh brightness of nearer ones.

Not much time had passed when the thrum of the engine changed into the smooth thrum of a tractor beam, and he frowned because he couldn’t see either ship or planet. Only a small moon, with no discernable settlement from the air big enough to have such power at this range.

He studied it for a long moment, then glanced up to find Anakin watching him closely. It only took him a moment.

“That’s not a moon,” he said, and didn’t phrase it as a question. Dread curled tight in his stomach.

“No,” Anakin replied, and there was triumph in his voice.

~

The holding cell’s walls were silver and smooth, stretching high above his head, and if Obi-Wan wasn’t aware that he was staring at the door - having been pushed through it an indeterminate amount of time before - he wasn’t sure that he would have known it was there, so seamless were the sliding panel’s joins.

The scale of the battle station overwhelmed him. From the docking bay, he had been led immediately away from the small welcoming contingent that had met with Anakin and Barbas, down a gleaming passageway and into an elevator tube. There, the clone trooper captain had dropped them thirty-two floors, and he had been marched out into the sweeping expanse of the detention area and into what seemed likely to be his own personal accommodation for the duration of the unknown trip.

The walls were still oiled with the residue that coated newly cut durasteel, and the cell smelt new and unused. Obi-Wan wondered how long this aberration had been in construction - surely long before the fall of the Jedi - and wondered who had known about its existence. He assumed that the gigantic battle station hadn’t been developed so near to Coruscant - a much too open, strategically difficult place to construct something that’s sheer magnitude would strike fear into the heart of the galaxy. And Obi-Wan didn’t even know the full capabilities of the monstrosity, although he thought it likely Anakin wouldn’t keep him in ignorance for too long.

Whatever the consequences of Obi-Wan’s attempted escape were to be, they were of a greater significance than he could ever have imagined. Even during his years of isolation on Tatooine, Obi-Wan could not have missed the existence of a weapon such as this. No, he was sure that this was to be the grand unveiling of the battle station to the entire galaxy - none of the systems could have missed the movement of a starship this size - and Anakin would be looking to make a statement. Obi-Wan’s palms were damp, sweat uncomfortably slick around his wrists where the force-dampeners were tight against his skin and he itched to be doing something, anything.

He meditated. The silence of the Force buzzed in his ears.

~

Grand Moff Tarkin looked the sort of man who would name a battle station the _Death Star_ , Obi-Wan thoughtas the man introduced himself and the battle station with a grim smile, sallow skin spread taut over high cheekbones. Behind him, viewing screens were dark with glittered space and the shadowed side of a green planet; it looked distinctly familiar.

Anakin was watching him. From his position against the wall, Senator Barbas was watching Anakin. The atmosphere of the control room was distinctly uncomfortable. Tarkin was still smiling.

“What do you think of her?” he asked.

Obi-Wan smiled. “Your ship is certainly quite impressive,” he said, mildly.

Tarkin’s eyes flashed, and he inclined his head slightly, irony set into the angle of his grey lips. “High praise, indeed, for a Jedi. But the Death Star is no mere _ship_. She is a world. A weapon. More powerful than anything the galaxy has ever seen before.”

“Oh?” Obi-Wan asked, and when Tarkin looked across at his Emperor, he followed his gaze.

Anakin was silent for a moment. “It is a planet killer.”

Obi-Wan frowned, his lips a tight line of consideration. “A planet killer,” he repeated. Two clones stepped up beside him, two gloved hands heavy restraints on his shoulders. He resisted the urge to shrug them off.

“Yes.” Anakin’s expression was hard. “Complete destruction. There will be nothing left.”

Obi-Wan glanced across at the viewing panels, dawning horror viciously consuming his insides as he watched the silent planet. He thought about the population, going about their everyday lives, unaware of the threat to their existence high above them. Over the intercom system, a mechanical voice announced the approach to Alderaan. His heart contracted in his chest.

“No--” he said, and jerked forward against the hands holding him back. “No!”

Anakin was watching him closely. “You have left me no choice, Obi-Wan. This is your own fault.”

“Anakin, _please_ ,” Obi-Wan implored. With some considerable effort, he relaxed into the strong hands holding him. “Think about this. You are not _evil_ , Anakin. And this --” his mouth worked for a moment, unable to find a word to describe what the Sith was readying himself to do, “-- _this_ is massacre. You will murder millions of people, Anakin. _Your_ people.”

The emperor turned away from him, silhouetted against the backdrop of the galaxy, face angled stiffly towards the viewing panel and the planet in its centre.

“Alderaan, for all its overtures of peace, has long been tied with the rebel alliance. They have not been my people for a long time,” he said, softly.

“The planet - the whole population - they don’t deserve this. In the eyes of the Empire, some, perhaps, are traitors. But all? Anakin, if you truly believe that then there is no hope for this galaxy. Palpatine has twisted your mind further into darkness than I would have believed possible.”

Anakin’s shoulders shuddered slightly, but when he spoke Obi-Wan could hear the black humour in his voice even if he couldn’t see his face. He was laughing. “Do you know how Palpatine died, Obi-Wan? I killed him. Once he had given me my body back and told me all there was to know about the Death Star, I killed him. I had planned it for a long time, but in the end I had to do it quicker than I would have liked. Tarkin expressed his concerns over the lengthy, unnecessary process of building my master was insisting upon, told me that at the rate they were going, the Death Star’s completion was likely to take many years more, and Sidious’ death suddenly became a more pressing need.”

Anakin told the tale so casually it hurt. Obi-Wan had trouble relating the boy who had been his padawan and the man who had been his friend with the monster in front of him. Sith tended to kill their masters, yes, but - naively, perhaps - he hadn’t expected it of Anakin. Palpatine was the truly evil one. Palpatine had been the one to turn Anakin to the Dark Side. Anakin would not have fallen without his machinations.

The truly sad thing about it was that Obi-Wan hadn’t even been aware that he had been making excuses for his old padawan. It had always simply been easier to hate Palpatine more.

He was bruised by the revelation.

Anakin turned and nodded towards Tarkin. “Get it ready,” he said. He glanced across at Barbas. “I am sorry.”

Senator Barbas nodded stiffly. His eyes were watching Obi-Wan.

“Anakin --” Obi-Wan began again, because he had to _try_ even if he had nothing else to say. His fabled negotiating skills were of little merit when his emotions were so wrapped up in the proceedings, and here and now - when it mattered more than it ever had before - he couldn’t be calm and collected. _Leia_ was on that planet - he had put her there - and Bail Organa and his wife and all the other nameless Alderaanians he had met, and countless more that he had never known. They were about to die and it was his fault. “This will simply give the rebel alliance more cause. You must see that. Alderaan is a peaceful planet, influential. By destroying it you will create ungovernable chaos. It will act as a rallying point for all the other systems that ever entertained notions of revolt.”

Anakin was watching him, his eyes dark. “You will not dissuade me. It will be no other planet but Alderaan. This is my punishment for you, Obi-Wan, and if there is any backlash it will be against _you_ and the failed Jedi cause. Perhaps now you won’t try to take my son from me again.” He smiled thinly. “I have heard much about your allegiance with this planet. Do not suppose to think that my choice is in any way accidental.”  
 _  
Allegiance with Alderaan._ Obi-Wan could have laughed at the sheer irony of it all. Yes, he had ties with Alderaan. If only the Sith knew that he was sentencing his own daughter to death.  
  
 _And perhaps that would stop him._ Obi-Wan shut his eyes against Anakin and the bright lights of the control room, and thought desperately. If he told Anakin that Padmé had had twins, that his daughter was on the planet he was about to destroy, that would surely stop him. He would have to go down to the planet to retrieve Leia before he could continue - but continue he would, Obi-Wan had no doubt, and with more resolve than before. Anakin would be furious, he knew, and Bail Organa’s family, the planet and Obi-Wan himself would bear the brunt of his wrath. But it would give the Alderaanians warning, grant them enough time to stage some sort of evacuation, allow some of them to escape the devastation. Perhaps.   
  
And Anakin would have Leia and Luke. And any plan Yoda might have once had to bring peace to the galaxy once more would be dust.

There had to be another answer. Another -

“Preparation is complete,” Tarkin said calmly, at a nod from a human working at the controls. “We are ready to fire at your command, Your Excellence.”

“No!” Obi-Wan shouted, and he was pressing against the clone troopers’ grips once more, struggling with them in desperation, his eyes on Anakin. The Sith turned away and nodded towards Tarkin.

“Stand by to fire.”

“Please, Anakin. _Think._ You don’t -- I’ll --” Obi-Wan thought back to a dark garden and a picnic lit by golden lanterns, Anakin’s warm hands on his cold skin and Anakin’s voice in his ear. “What you offered,” he said, his throat constricting around the words. “I’ll do it.”

There was a tense hesitation. Both the storm troopers’ hands tightened painfully on his shoulders. Then:

“Wait,” Anakin said to Tarkin, and turned.

Obi-Wan saw Tarkin flick too-bright eyes in his direction, was aware of Barbas stiffening straighter on the edges of his awareness, but he ignored them both, everything he had focused on the Sith.

“You said no before,” Anakin said, his tone accusatory and vicious.

“I won’t lie to you,” Obi-Wan said, knowing just how dangerous doing so could be. “You know why I’m doing this.”

Anakin moved towards him then, eyes narrowed and mouth set in a bitter line. He stopped in front of him, forever too close, and Obi-Wan fancied he could taste the anger seething within him.

“You will do as I say? Always?” he said, as he leant in closer.

“Yes.”

“And you will _pretend_?” he spat.

Obi-Wan was unsure as to whether Anakin wanted to create some sort of illusion out of the relationship between them, or whether he was expressing disgust at the very idea.

“Of course,” he said, not because it was necessarily the correct answer to give but because it was true.

Anakin laughed, sharp and short, then paused, never taking his eyes off Obi-Wan. “I do not need your _consent_ ,” he finally said, softly.

“I know,” Obi-Wan replied, with a grim smile. “But you want it.”

Anakin stilled. Then his face seemed to relax and he straightened, his eyes challenging. “I will still root out any rebellion sympathises on Alderaan. And I will show no mercy.”  
  
Obi-Wan nodded. “I understand better than most the need for a stable galaxy, Your Excellence.”

Anakin hesitated, then briskly turned his head.

“Cancel the operation,” he said shortly to Tarkin. The grey man looked displeased, but did as he was bid without questioning the order. Obi-Wan felt completely drained, his legs weak and his hands unable to grip tightly enough into fists at his sides as relief surged through him. He thought he might have staggered without the two clones still by his side.

“Take him back down to his cell for the moment,” Anakin said, with a nod to the clones. The smile he directed at Obi-Wan was unfriendly. “He needs to think through exactly what he’s agreed to.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a request for a rape warning here. I'm not 100% on the need for it with the tags already in place but better to be safe than sorry! Consider yourselves warned...

The suite of rooms that Anakin used were huge, gold and crimson, impersonal. At the huge double doors, he had been handed over to the chamberlain, who had waved the storm troopers away impatiently with his tentacles and had then ushered him inside. He was told to sit, a cool glistening blue beverage thrust into his hands, and he fumbled his way onto one of the indecently massive loungers, unable to sit back entirely for fear of not being able to reach the floor with his feet, and sinking steadily into the luxurious gold-thread cushions at an alarming rate.

The chamberlain hovered over him until he had stopped shifting with discomfort, then asked him politely to hold out his left thumb. Obi-Wan did, and it was immediately encased in a close-fitting plasteel sheath, one of the chamberlain’s tentacles wrapping warm and secure about his wrist, just below the force inhibitor, to prevent movement. Without ceremony or due warning, another tentacle pressed against the top of the device, and it clicked audibly as small, metal needles buried themselves into the fleshy pad of Obi-Wan’s thumb, and he jerked slightly with surprise. Then the sheath was carefully removed, its surface already swelling with an aurora wash of colour, and the chamberlain studied the flickering change intensely for a few moments.

“No diseases,” he announced finally, his voice muffled slightly by the mouth whiskers drooping down past his rubbery chin. “You are clean for use.”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth in surprised protest, blood flushing into his cheeks, but another tentacle was already pushing at the tumbler in his other hand, bringing it closer to his mouth.

“Drink,” he was told. “It will be good for you.” And the chamberlain bustled away through a door leading deeper into the apartments.

Obi-Wan looked suspiciously down at the drink in his hands; the very top of it had congealed slightly into a darker blue, shot through with glimmering silver, and it steadily gave off the distinctive smell of burning liquorice grass. Tentatively, he raised it to his lips, wanting to shiver as cool strands cobwebbed through his body as he swallowed, wrapping around his veins, his heart, his brain. The hollow space just beneath his breastbone didn’t ache with quite such poignancy as it had before, his tense muscles relaxing, and his heart rate gradually slowed, the beat of his blood calm and smooth in his eardrums. He held the drink up to study in the light; nothing but a mere relaxant then, although he had never seen one quite this hue before, nor felt the effects take hold quite so quickly. Feeling somewhat a cheat, he swallowed another mouthful and settled further back in his seat. The drink had nothing on the soothing qualities of the Force, but it was something, at least, when Obi-Wan was stripped of all other defences. It was something to know that he wouldn’t crack under the strain.

He sat and considered the room for a long time, not consciously thinking about anything. When Anakin entered the suite, he was surrounded by the noise of clerks and officials, and Obi-Wan watched silently as he gave instructions, put his mark on official documents, leant over his writing desk to quickly pen a note to the Treasury. It was hard to relate this man to the one Obi-Wan had seen a matter of hours ago, calmly giving the order to destroy an entire planet. One by one, Anakin dismissed his entourage until the room was empty, cold once more without the bureaucratic bustle, and only Anakin and Obi-Wan were left. Without looking at him, Anakin poured himself a drink from a decanter on the table, frosted it with ice and raised it to his lips, downing it in one, his fingers pressed white and bloodless against the glass. Then he turned.

“Come,” he said, shortly, and walked through into the adjoining room without pause.

Obi-Wan struggled out of the soft embrace of the lounger, pushing himself to his feet and standing still for a moment, allowing his stomach to settle. Then he stiffly followed in the direction Anakin had lead, moving through into an anteroom and, without allowing himself to hesitate over the decision, pushing through into the adjoining room.

Unhappily - although Obi-Wan couldn’t say he was surprised - it was a bedroom, sumptuous and airy and unlit, with huge sheets of glass for windows behind which Coruscant glowed golden and silent in the night time. Obi-Wan hovered in the doorway, entirely unsure of himself now he was here; unsure of where to stand, _how_ to stand, what to say. There was the shadowy mass of a bed - massive, fit for the Emperor of an entire galaxy - and there was Anakin, and Obi-Wan felt the last cooling effects of the relaxant disappear as his heart redoubled its efforts and his blood surged nervously through his veins. He had to brutally clamp down on the urge just to back out the door and never turn back, because he had given his word and there would be no saving Alderaan a second time around, he was sure. Anakin had his back to him, silhouetted by the night sky and casually handing his cloak and his gloves to a female servant. The thought that they might not be alone for this, that Anakin might ask him to do this in front of a collection of personal servants, had never occurred to Obi-Wan before. He clenched his hands behind his back and resolved himself not to move, not to think, not to do anything until it was required of him.

Anakin turned around and looked at him, his shadowed face devoid of any readily identifiable expression, and Obi-Wan weathered his gaze as a female Twi’lek carefully removed his tunic, leaving him bare-chested, and then bent to remove his boots.

“Leave us,” Anakin said, when she was done, and the Twi’lek bowed low, holding the tunic and boots close to her chest as she left the room through a discreet second entrance, the panel sliding softly shut behind her. Obi-Wan followed her with his eyes, and when he turned back, Anakin was still watching him, a small smile on his lips. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We won’t be disturbed.”

Obi-Wan nodded shortly, his gut twisting into knots. Contrarily, he wasn’t entirely sure that was preferable anymore.

Anakin stretched, unselfconsciously, his muscles showing clear and defined beneath his skin in the pale half-light from the polluted sky, the trousers he still wore riding dangerously low on his hips. Then he stepped forward towards the centre of the room, the wall lights slowly glowing into brightness in what Obi-Wan knew had to be a trick of the Force, and sat down on the edge of the bed, facing Obi-Wan.

“Come here,” he said, soft and low, his eyes dark.

Obi-Wan steeled himself and stepped forwards, resolutely stopping a good ten paces from the bed.

Anakin smiled with something akin to delight, as if this was a mere game he was playing - as if he had been expecting Obi-Wan’s recalcitrance - as if he enjoyed it. “Closer.”

Obi-Wan set his jaw and did as he was asked.

“Good,” Anakin said, and Obi-Wan was close enough for him to reach out a hand and touch if he wanted. “Now strip.”

Obi-Wan numbly reached for the edges of his tunic, pulling it over his head without ceremony and folding it neatly, before placing it on the floor. The air was soft and cool on his bared skin, the flesh beneath the force inhibitors clasped around his forearms strangely warm, and he shivered unfeelingly as the contrast raised hairs on the back of his neck. He refused to think of anything as he toed his sandals off and slipped two thumbs - one still aching slightly, inflamed from the blood test - into the waistband of his trousers, easing them down his legs and stepping out of them, briskly folding the garment and placing it on top of his tunic. He hesitated briefly, then glanced at Anakin, and the Sith’s eyes were still firmly on his face, dark and strange. He swallowed forcefully and looked away, worried there might be something of mute appeal in his expression and entirely unwilling to offer himself up so completely to Anakin’s mercy in such a way. Because Anakin’s mercy, he knew irrevocably now, was non-existent. Stiffly, he dragged his undergarment down and off, letting the thin material fall from his fingers onto the small pile of clothes lying neatly on the floor by his feet.

He stood there, naked and miserable, and submitted to Anakin’s inspection of his body without a word. It wasn’t as if Anakin hadn’t seen him fully unclothed before - they had, after all, shared an apartment as master and padawan, and there had been no hope of keeping anything private in their cramped, muddy quarters in the trenches of the Clone War - and yet this was an entirely different experience, unpleasant bordering on cruel, and he thought Anakin was well aware of that fact.

Anakin slowly stood up into Obi-Wan’s space, near enough that Obi-Wan had to bite down on the urge to step backwards, barely managing to catch the knee-jerk reaction as repressed motion rippled through his body and he almost - awfully, humiliatingly - lost his balance. Anakin’s hand was already cradling his elbow, though, grip firm and steady, keeping him from stumbling, and Obi-Wan glanced upwards to dark, knowing eyes.

“Don’t move,” Anakin said softly, his thumb stroking gently into the soft skin at the crook of his elbow for a wordless moment, almost like reassurance. Then his long-boned fingers trailed down his arm, smoothing over his skin and catching at the cool edge of the force inhibitor, tracing carefully around the rim where it bit into the flesh. Letting go, he stepped around him, and Obi-Wan made to turn with him, not wanting the Sith out of his sight, but a hand on his shoulder blade stopped him. “Don’t move,” Anakin said again, a little firmer this time, and Obi-Wan stiffened. Shutting his eyes, he shifted back to his original position, holding himself rigidly still as Anakin placed a hand on his hip, warm and foreign and wrong, before trailing his fingers around to the small of his back and pressing his knuckles firmly into his spine.

Obi-Wan didn’t think of those eyes on him. Didn’t think of Anakin inspecting him, for all the worlds like a piece of Bantha flesh. Instead, he imagined the desert, dry and shimmering through the haze of heat, the bleached ground stretching as far as the eye could see. He thought of a calm, gentle touch through the Force, a deep voice instructing him, reassuring him, keeping him sane. He pictured a small boy, a white-blond mop of hair in his eyes and a shy grin, so much like his father and yet so different.

Anakin pressed close against him, his body a solid line of heat against Obi-Wan’s back and the material of his trousers rough as it grazed lightly over bare, sensitive skin. A sound stuttered in Obi-Wan’s throat, half-formed and incoherent, as he was wrenched away from his thoughts, and Anakin’s breath was hot like the desert breeze on his neck.

“I’ve wanted to see you like this for a long time, Obi-Wan,” he said, too much desire wrapped about the words for it to be a confession. His hand slipped around the back of his neck, fingers and thumb pressing into the small hollows either side of his jaw, lightsabre calluses causing a strange, shivery sensation against his skin, whilst his other hand slid firmly, slowly, resolutely down his spine, not stopping, and Obi-Wan’s fingers curled into loose fists at his side. “Completely naked. Hiding behind nothing, not even the Force. Just you.”

“Your Excellence is paranoid, surely,” Obi-Wan murmured, and felt Anakin’s smile grow against his shoulder. The Sith didn’t answer as he slowly stepped back into Obi-Wan’s vision, which perhaps unsettled Obi-Wan more than any reply could have, merely let his gaze travel steadily down his body, lingering with an easy hunger over his groin before flicking back up to his face. Obi-Wan shifted once more, uncomfortable and exposed in a way he had never experienced before, pressing his lips together into a thin, tight line of disapproval.

Anakin’s gaze didn’t waver and a feral smile spread slowly onto his lips. “Lie back on the bed,” he said, softly, an idle finger dragging thoughtlessly over the jut of Obi-Wan’s hip, a thumb stroking across the line of golden hair just below his navel.

Obi-Wan took a step backwards, away from the disturbing patterns Anakin was pressing into his stomach. A restlessness crawled beneath his skin, the need for action, escape, and his fingers itched for a lightsabre with a ferocity that disturbed him. He allowed himself to take a wide berth around Anakin - the only satisfaction he could give to the urges clamouring inside him, and it had to be enough, it had to be - carefully making his way to the edge of the huge bed, the silk sheets soft and cool against the tops of his thighs. He hesitated.

“How do you want--”

“How do you think?” Anakin asked, suddenly vicious. “On your hands and knees in the middle of the bed, spreading yourself wide open for me, perhaps?”

Obi-Wan’s gut tightened at the vulgarity and he nodded, steadying himself with one hand on the beautiful sheets as he manoeuvred himself up onto the bed, his heart beating through his fingertips and the skin about his wrists feeling tight and stretched with the flow of blood. Positioning himself in the very centre, he shifted his weight onto his knees and considered the backs of his hands for a brief moment, the white tracery of scars stark against skin browned by the Tatooine suns, then placed them onto the pale silk, breathing deep and evenly. The bed dipped to his side and a rough palm was warm against his shoulder, unexpected, causing his breath to catch noisily in his throat.

“On your back, Obi-Wan,” Anakin said, his voice soft and gentle once more. “I was angry.” His hand smoothed down Obi-Wan’s flank, and he said again, even softer, “On your back.”

Obi-Wan felt completely out of his depth as Anakin’s large, capable hands helped him turn, manoeuvring him down, and he stared sightlessly up at the ceiling as fingers curled about his thighs, spreading his legs gently open to a comfortable angle. He felt Anakin settle by his side, the scratch of his trousers hardly a comfort against Obi-Wan’s bare skin, one hand splaying across his stomach, hot and heavy.

“What did you expect, Obi-Wan?” Anakin asked, his voice throaty and raw in his ear, dark amusement evident. “That I would take you right here? That I would fuck you, hard, deep, until you bled?”

His other hand slid over his hip, dragged through coarse hair and curled tightly about sensitive flesh, his thumb dragging lightly over the head, rubbing in small, irregular circles. Obi-Wan wanted to bat that hand away. Wanted to twist out of his grip. Wanted to remind Anakin that they were not friends, not lovers - were anything but. He didn’t though, just continued to stare up at the ceiling, face composed, fingers digging slightly into the sheets either side of him.

“I won’t help you make a martyr of yourself, Obi-Wan,” Anakin said, lightly. “This isn’t about me fucking you. This is about you _enjoying_ yourself.” His hand stroked, up, down, as if to punctuate his point.

The slow burn of panic wrapped around Obi-Wan’s gut, and he looked at Anakin and Anakin’s tight smile, and tried to rise off the bed, not thinking about anything but how it wasn’t meant to go like this, how this wasn’t fair. Anakin being Anakin, always taking what he needed without thought or due consideration, Anakin as a Sith - Darth Vader - cruel and vicious and revelling in pain, and Obi-Wan could take either of those two options, could weather them without complaint, could withdraw after all was done and recover, heal. But this? This was unthinkable. This required his complicity in the act, however much it would be drawn unwillingly from him, and there was no Force to act as a buffer between himself and his emotions, no Force to act as a buffer between him and _Anakin_.

Anakin’s hand on his solar plexus was unrelenting, however, keeping him firmly pressed down on the sheets.

“Relax,” he said, softly. “That’s all you need to do, Obi-Wan. Relax.”

Obi-Wan didn’t relax. He vibrated with suppressed energy, lying completely stiff, as Anakin’s fingers pulled and twisted and _stroked_ , and only really tried to wrench away when a reaction was slowly coaxed from his body, his flesh hardening in Anakin’s sure grip. Anakin grinned, something of pleasure and confidence in the expression, and pushed him back down resolutely, shifting so that his full weight was over the top of Obi-Wan’s thighs, keeping him uncomfortably pinned to the bed.

“Let it happen,” he said, his hand drifting down from his stomach and gently rubbing over his hipbone, the fingers of his other hand still working at an uncomfortable rhythm between his legs. Obi-Wan’s jaw was aching, his teeth gritted together hard against the warm rolls of pleasure arcing through his flesh, into his brain, and sweat was drying cool on his forehead, collecting in the small of his back from the strain. Anakin shifted again, backwards this time, then carefully uncurled his fingers and put both hands, flat, on either side of Obi-Wan’s pelvis, pressing him firmly down as he bent his head and pressed his teeth along the tender edge of his erection, his tongue warm and wet as it dragged over the head. Obi-Wan choked back a groan at the new feeling, then arched fully off the bed, fingers clawing into the sheets as Anakin leant down, swallowed, and Obi-Wan was engulfed in hot, tight, unforgiving sensation.

It didn’t take long, and there was a bitter twist to Obi-Wan’s thoughts as he surrendered, let go completely, his mind and skin shivering from sensitivity as Anakin finally let him slip from his mouth, a satisfaction in his eyes as he blew gently across his softening flesh, the muscles in Obi-Wan’s thighs spasming slightly under his fingers. His heartbeat was unsteady and he felt incapable of breath, let alone voice, his chest still heaving with the remnants of gasps torn from his throat.

Anakin crawled up his side, pressing a chaste kiss to his mouth with lips that tasted of Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan couldn’t summon the momentum to push him away, nor even to simply tell him ‘no’. He felt broken open, his innards exposed.

Anakin brushed a hand through his hair, smearing it off Obi-Wan’s face and out of his eyes, looking down at him with a close intensity. “There,” he said, softly. “That wasn’t too hard, was it?”

And Obi-Wan knew the words weren’t designed to hurt, but they did. The Jedi had never encouraged loose morals, but neither had they preached a complete denial of the more baser instincts, and Obi-Wan was no stranger to sex. Anakin couldn’t know that Obi-Wan had adopted a practice of complete abstinence since his banishment to Tatooine, though; part self-flagellation, part a more subtle fear that he wouldn’t be able to separate the passion of a moment from the heat of Mustafar. He didn’t reply.

Anakin frowned, his mouth carrying a recognisable hint of petulance, of frustration. He pushed away from Obi-Wan and got rigidly up from the bed, his trousers hanging awkwardly from his frame, his own arousal more than clear. With clenched fists, he stalked through an open doorway, the door sliding shut behind him, leaving Obi-Wan completely alone.

It took considerable effort, but Obi-Wan slowly gathered himself together in the silence, shifting carefully down to the edge of the bed and planting his feet firmly on the floor. He found it strangely comforting to feel carpet beneath his toes, and he stared down at it, mapping its dizzying, sweeping patterns with his eyes, both his hands cupped modestly in his lap. He waited.

When Anakin reappeared, his mood blacker by the stiff set of his shoulders and the flash of his eyes, it was obvious as to what he had been doing, and Obi-Wan resolutely fixed his eyes above the Sith’s waist, not at all willing to witness the fruits of his labour.

“Go to bed,” Anakin said - ordered - and turned as a different female servant entered the room, her movements soft but swift as she carefully undid his trousers, pulling them down to reveal naked flesh, and Obi-Wan turned abruptly away, mortified more by her presence than anything else.

He stood up and stooped for his small pile of clothes, placing them on the bed and, rather clumsily, attempting to step into his undergarment. The fabric wouldn’t stay about his hips, though, having been stretched in the removal, and he spent precious moments fumbling at the knot, before finally prevailing. Pulling his trousers towards him, he glanced up briefly to find Anakin standing before him - clad in sleeping pants, the personal servant nowhere to be seen - his expression dark.

“What are you doing?” he asked, the words bitten out with a quiet anger.

“Going to my rooms,” Obi-Wan said. “You said --”

“Go to bed,” Anakin supplied, his eyes flickering behind Obi-Wan to the massive sleeping structure. “Precisely.”

“Oh.” Obi-Wan’s insides curled in on themselves unhappily. “I didn’t realise.”

Anakin waited. With as much dignity as he could muster, Obi-Wan folded his trousers once more, placing both them and his tunic back on the floor again. He didn’t remove his undergarment as before, but Anakin didn’t say anything of the small rebellion, merely pulled back the cover and got into bed. Obi-Wan followed suit, lying stiffly on the very edge of the bed, tired and only wanting to sleep. Long days and nights had passed since he had last slept in a proper bed.

The lights flickered out, the blinds snapping shut on Coruscant, and they lay together in the dark, the Sith in arm’s reach. Only after Anakin’s breathing had become slow and steady did Obi-Wan allow himself to finally close his eyes, surprised, despite himself, that Anakin had made no other overture towards him.

He asked for no dreams, and slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote, folks. Please rest assured my 17yo self had intended this to have a happy-ish ending.


End file.
